by Jo Schaffer
Mary stood looking at her as if she wanted to say more. It was not unusual for Mary to shoot the breeze with Hazel. It happened often enough. Just small talk and gossip. But not so much since all of the kidnapping drama. Hazel had learned that most people didn’t know what to say.
“So … I heard you actually beat up Charles Chouteau with a pipe,” she finally said, a look on her face that Hazel couldn’t interpret.
“I gave him a good smack. I’d be able to do a lot more now.”
“I see that …” Mary shifted her weight and took a breath. “I’m glad. I’m glad you hurt him. He was a killer, but he was more than that.” She bit her lip and broke eye contact. “I never told anyone because nobody would believe me,” she rushed. “Everyone thought he was sweet, and he spoke so softly. His family is in such high standing … powerful.”
Hazel nodded, suddenly aware that Mary was telling her something important. Something she’d never told anyone else. “Yeah. He had us all fooled.”
Mary swallowed. “And I’m not a dish like you or Sandy. Never been the pretty one … so I don’t think people would believe me.”
“Oh.” Hazel understood. “You’re telling me he’s a masher.”
Mary’s cheeks bloomed pink. “Last year at Edith’s Halloween party. He trapped me in the music room alone. I was dressed as an Indian princess, and by coincidence, he was an Indian chief.” She stopped and glanced around the field. A cold breeze swirled by, and she rubbed her arms. Mary spoke quieter now. “At first, I was flattered. He said such nice things … but then he wouldn’t stop putting his hands on me. He’s strong, Hazel.” Her voice wavered, and her eyes filled with tears that she quickly blinked away. “Anyway, at some point Gabriel Sinclair walked in and broke up the party. But he’d already hurt me and done things … After that, he pretended I was invisible.”
Hazel watched as Mary’s brave face melted. She reached out and hugged the tall girl while she sniffed back tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not knowing what else she could say. He had hurt so many people.
“Don’t tell anyone, okay? I’ll be disgraced—seen as dirty,” Mary sobbed.
“He’s the disgrace. Not you. He’s the dirty scum.” Hazel’s heart felt like it was being pulled out of her chest. It was so unfair.
Charles was a monster. It was clear that other people were not even human to him. Just playthings to handle, cut up, or smash with a bat as he pleased. She wondered how many other girls had suffered by his hands in secret.
Thank God Charles was locked away where he couldn’t hurt anyone now.
Stanley sat on the stairs in front of St. James and stared into space. He felt removed from his body, numb, and nothing seemed real. Nightmares of Vinnie’s dead face kept him tossing and turning all night. He’d been grateful the black bag hid the truth from him at the Rookery. Otherwise, he might never sleep again.
Seamus tried in his own way to help at breakfast, but just ended up uttering old Irish platitudes that weren’t all that helpful. Finally, Stanley couldn’t take it anymore and told his uncle he wanted to talk to Father Timothy. To lend truth to the lie, he’d walked to his local parish church but didn’t go inside.
He sat on the cold steps and looked up at the stained glass, gothic windows. The cloudy sky above the church looked like billows of ink spreading and fading in water. There might be a storm coming.
Stanley didn’t want to talk to the priest. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Instead, he just wanted to scream at the top of his lungs then gather up his stuff and disappear. Where? He didn’t know and didn’t care. Just anywhere, where he didn’t feel the ghost of his best friend on every street corner or feel Hazel’s eyes staring up at him with disdain. The look she’d given him didn’t seem like her, almost as if Charles had possessed her body.
He shook his head. Stupid idea, really. Arthur was right. Hazel just wanted to be a swell and forget about everything that happened. He couldn’t really blame her, not really. She wanted to retreat into her safe, little world and not think about the awful things they’d seen. He wanted to do the same. Seamus had said he was a man, but he didn’t feel like one. Right now, he was just a scared kid who wanted to run and hide.
Taking out the diary, he stared at it for a few moments. This stupid, little book caused all the problems. They knew he had it, and they wanted it. And they would make his life, and the lives of everyone he cared about, a living hell. Despite what he’d said last night, Stanley didn’t think they would spare Hazel either.
Maybe it was just time to get out, get rid of the diary, and somehow send the message the Knights were done. The whole thing was too much for him, and no one would blame him, not really. Not after Vinnie.
Stanley shuddered as the squeaking of the rope sounded through his memory. But he couldn’t let the bastards win. He should give the diary to someone older, more responsible. But who?
He ran through the list of alternatives and rejected them all. And then it hit him; Father Timothy. He was a Jesuit. Weren’t they the pope’s spies and all that? Most of what was said about them was dumb, written by people who hated Catholics. Still, Father Timothy often gave hints about some of the strange things he’d done. And he seemed to know more about what was going on in St. Louis than anyone else.
Stanley stood up, straightening his coat and hat. That’s what he would do. Give the book to the Jesuits and Father Timothy. Let them handle this mess. And he would finish school. Maybe. Or just leave and go west. He’d read about the Civilian Conservation Corps and their work out west. He always wanted to go out there. Maybe Seamus would give him the thumbs up.
Letting out a breath, he turned and went into the church. Dipping his finger into the holy water, he crossed himself and said a brief prayer. After kneeling at the altar, he went to Father Timothy’s office.
Just as he was about to knock on the door, he heard voices inside; one of them was Seamus’s street-hardened Irish lilt. Unable to help himself, Stanley put his ear against the door.
“I’m worried about the lad, that’s a fact, Father. I heard him moaning and thrashing about last night. I don’t know how much he can take. He’s a brave boy, but still a boy. That scene at the Rookery, well, it gave me nightmares, and I’ve seen it all.”
“I agree, Seamus. But he’s faced everything like a man.”
Another voice cut in, and Stanley stopped himself from crying out in surprise. “I’m highly impressed with his poise and grace with my daughter. He is a bit rough around the edges, but Hazel adores him. And from Sister Mary John’s report, his writing is exceptional. I would not object to him working on my new enterprise.”
Mr. Malloy. What was he doing here?
“Mary and Joseph, forgive me, Father, but did you hear nothing I said? And as the boy is with me until he’s old enough, I have a right to say what’s what.”
Stanley furrowed his brow. They all were discussing some kind of future or project for him. But what?
“When I was his age, I clerked for my father’s firm and was starting to handle clients.”
Seamus shot back. “And when I was his age, I was crawling around the bottom of a ship, shoveling coal. What’s your point?”
Stanley wondered what was bugging Seamus so much. He’d always pushed Stanley to be a man, encouraging him work different jobs and be independent.
“Gentlemen, I think Stanley is old enough to make up his own mind. Maybe we should let him speak for himself.”
Stanley took this as his cue and opened the door. “Yeah, I’d like that. So, maybe you all should tell me what this is all about.”
Seamus and Mr. Malloy looked at him in surprise, but Father Timothy just smiled and motioned him to an empty chair.
“Come in. I’d admonish you about eavesdropping, but I suspect you would ignore that. I’m afraid you’ve discovered our little conspiracy.”
Stanley took off his hat and eased himself into the chair. He crossed his legs, trying to l
ook sophisticated like Mr. Malloy.
“Okay, so what’s this all about then?”
“Perhaps I’ll explain, as I’m the one who brought everyone together,” Father Timothy said.
Mr. Malloy and Seamus said nothing. Stanley felt like he was about to get let in on some little secret.
“Stanley, it’s not an accident that I was assigned to this parish. The pope and the Jesuits were concerned when they learned what was going on in St. Louis, and his Holiness instructed the bishop to place me here. Before I became a Jesuit, I acquired certain … skills, you might say. We’ve been watching the Veiled Prophet organization for years now. Sadly, because many Catholics in this city have joined without realizing the more sinister motives. But one of them has recently become a Benedictine monk, Brother Martin, who is partly the reason why I am here.”
A monk. Stanley remembered the letter he’d read in Father Timothy’s study before the whole thing with the caves.
“Brother has given us a treasure trove of information from his own experience inside the Veiled Prophet organization, and he has interviewed and recorded the accounts of others who have escaped Legion. We now have spies in their group. But we have to be careful with the information, as we don’t want to jeopardize lives.”
“Are they after Hazel?” Stanley asked, leaning forward.
Father Timothy shook his head. “I don’t know. But Seamus, Mr. Malloy, and I have been meeting, along with some others, to figure out who is at risk. We can’t go to press to tell the world about what’s going on here, nor to the authorities, as many of them are in with the VP. And all of them have bought into the diabolical teachings of eugenics. The Church has raised its voice in protest, but we’ve been told we are backward and ‘from the Dark ages,’ conjuring up images of the Spanish Inquisition and the burning of witches, and so we are ignored, dismissed, or not trusted.”
Stanley saw the whole picture show. The Veiled Prophet was the figurehead for Legion. They’d cast a net over St. Louis, and their point of view was embraced by the educated and the elite. It didn’t matter if they were Democrats or Republicans. All of them drank from the same sewer.
He stood up and paced the worn, polished floor. “Then there’s no hope. Only sane option is to get out. I’ve been thinking of going west anyway. Let this city go to the devil for all I care.”
The three men looked at each other, and then Seamus said, “Nah, boy. We got plenty of hope. But we may lose our lives because of it.”
“So, what’s the point then?” Stanley said. “People get what they deserve. They’re choosing this.”
“The point, Stanley, is that evil must be fought by those with the means to do so. Not everyone who is affected has chosen this,” Mr. Malloy said, taking out his pipe. “I’ve respected your honesty and courage in regards to my daughter. Are you still that young man?”
He always thought Mr. Malloy was a blustering idiot of a father, so preoccupied with business that he didn’t have a scrap of smarts left for the real world. This new Mr. Malloy caught him flat footed, and he forgot his manners. “Yeah, all that got greased when Vinnie got a rope tied around his neck. And what do you care? You live in a rich pile of bricks, and nobody can touch you. What do you know about struggle?”
His words reverberated in the quiet room. Stanley wished one of them would yell at him about his sass mouth or something. He took off his cap and ran his hands through his hair.
“Son, you’ve had a terrible few months. Mr. Malloy is trying to help,” Father Timothy said in a gentle tone.
Nicholas Malloy gave Stanley a probing look, puffing on his pipe. “Teach me. All I know are my own struggles and what I can learn from others.”
Stanley nodded. “Okay, I’ll tell you my secrets, if you tell me yours. How did you and Father become a team? What’s your story? Why are you involved in all of this?”
“Before Father Timothy and I met through Brother Martin, I had read some things that primed me for what was to come. G.K. Chesterton’s essay called Eugenics and Other Evils particularly affected me. I was unaware these things were going on in my own country. I was convinced that it was a sick and twisted movement that would bring ruin on all of society. Then they went after my daughter. And now, I think they are going after my wife. That is not something I can stand for. That is why I am involved.”
Stanley looked at Mr. Malloy and saw a steel he’d never noticed. The man’s jaw was set, and he puffed hard on his pipe. It just went to show you could never really know a person until it all started going south.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Malloy. Just feeling a bit rough and ragged.”
Mr. Malloy nodded. “You’re a fighter. I expect nothing less. That’s why we’re going to need you and your Knights.”
Seamus shook his head. “I’m tellin’ ya, it’s a bad idea.”
“Yeah, but as you told me before, I’m a man now, and I make my own decisions,” Stanley said, sitting down. Seamus stared at him for a moment, overcome with some unknown emotion, and then he nodded.
“I guess the good Lord and all the saints are against me on this one.”
Father Timothy smiled. “Not in the least, Seamus. They are, at least this time, on our side.”
“So ya say, Father, forgive me.”
“So, what’s the skinny? How can we help?” Stanley said.
Father Timothy took a thin newspaper from his desk and lifted it up. “Have you ever heard of The Catholic Worker?”
Stanley nodded. “Yeah, Dorothy Day. Helping homeless people and all that. She’s why I steal … eh … get food from the trash cans for others.”
Mr. Malloy gave him a half smile. “You think that goes unnoticed? A few of us put out more food at night, you know.”
Stanley stared at him, a bit nettled. He thought his Knights were being daring and putting it to the swells. But, come to think of it, some of the trash cans did seem a bit loaded. They’d thought it was just the swells being ungrateful swine. His head spun a little.
“Yes, Dorothy Day’s group in New York. But their little newspaper is starting to gain a huge following across the country. And so that’s what we are going to do. We’re going to start our own little, revolutionary newspaper to get the word out.”
“How? I mean, we don’t have any money, or printing press, or anything like that,” Stanley said.
“We do, because I just acquired everything we need. We have an editor, Father Timothy. He will use a false name, of course. But we need writers, and more importantly, we need a street network, someone who can get the papers in the hands of everyone, and I do mean everyone: colored, white, Jews, Poles, Irish, oriental, whoever can read or have someone read to them,” Mr. Malloy said.
“So, what do you think, boyo, are you and the Knights up for it?”
Stanley frowned as he looked between the three men. Mr. Malloy looked out the window, as if to give Stanley his space to decide.
“So, basically, you want me and my boys to put our heads in a noose.” Stanley rubbed his neck, thinking about Vinnie. “And those who love us?”
“Son, you’ve already done that. Once you helped Hazel and Sandy, and were in the newspapers and on the radio, you became a target. You could, of course, leave the city, get away, and hide out somewhere,” Father Timothy said, giving Stanley a piercing stare. “Or, you can stay and fight the evil in the city. The choice is yours.”
Stanley looked down, wondering if the priest could read his mind. He didn’t say anything for a moment and wondered what to do. From what he heard, Seamus would have been more than happy to send him west with the CCC. But would he really be safe, even there? And if he ran now, he would be on the run all of his life. Besides, he’d always wanted to be a reporter and write for a paper. This could be a start.
“If I agree to do this, I’m not gonna speak for the boys; they have to decide for themselves. I’m not really the boss of them. I want to be in on all of the info, including the monk, Father Timot
hy. I want to know all that you know.”
“Well, I suppose it’s time we lay all the cards on the table.” Father Timothy got up, walked over to the file cabinet, took a key out of his pocket, unlocked it, and retrieved a large shoe box.
“This is my correspondence with Brother Martin, a Benedictine monk who used to be a member of the upper class of St. Louis Society. And a member of Legion, the secret guard of The Veiled Prophet. I do believe you came across one of his letters on my desk once, Stanley.”
Stanley nodded. “Yeah. I saw it. It said something about Legion.”
“Yes. He used to be a part of it. You’re welcome to read through any of this whenever you like.”
“Okay. So how does Malloy know him? You one of the VP’s goons, too?”
Mr. Malloy shook his head. “Brother Martin was a former apprentice of mine who showed a lot of promise in the world of business before he took his vows. At the time, I didn’t know about his past. It was through him that I met Father Timothy, before all of this happened with you and Hazel.”
“But, I mean the way you acted with me … with Hazel. Some of the things you said about the poor, she told me,” Stanley said, his head spinning.
Mr. Malloy took out his cigar, contemplated the burning end for a moment, then said, “I haven’t always said and done the right things in life. If someone published every careless word you ever said or every bad deed you’ve done in the papers—what would people think of you? The more I knew, the more my view on things changed. However, I couldn’t advertise that. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to figure out, Stanley, there are spies everywhere. I wanted to keep my daughter out of danger. But when they took Hazel anyway, I knew it was time to go toe to toe.”
The pieces fell into place. Of course. Mr. Malloy was playing the fool and trying to keep Hazel safe. All of his anger and controlling was out of fear.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Malloy. I’m a real crumb bum for assuming I had you pegged.”
Shaking out his pipe into an ashtray, he said, “Not at all, Stanley. My little ruse worked quite well.”
