by Caleb Carr
Things were quiet for so long that I thought that maybe Mrs. Muhlenberg had fallen asleep. Finally, Miss Howard glanced at me with a question in her face, but all I could do was shrug, in a way what I hoped showed her how much I wanted to get the hell out of that house. Miss Howard was after something, though, and I knew we weren’t going anywhere ’til she got it.
“Mrs. Muhlenberg?” she said quietly.
“Mmm? Yes?” the woman answered.
“You were saying …”
“I was saying?”
“You were saying that it wasn’t water—Libby’s milk.”
“No. Not water.” We heard another sigh. “Poison …”
I shifted in my chair nervously at the word, but Miss Howard just kept pressing: “Poison?”
The dark head rocked up and down. “We had the doctor in many times, but he couldn’t explain what was happening. Michael was ill—terribly ill. And then Libby’s health began to suffer, too. That made the doctor think it must’ve been a fever, some kind of infectious illness that my son had passed on to her. How could we have guessed …” Her foot started to move nervously again. “I was suspicious. Call it a mother’s instinct, but I couldn’t believe that my son was infecting Libby. No—I was convinced that she was doing something to him. My husband said that I was so careworn I was becoming unbalanced. He said that Libby was exposing herself to danger to help Michael. He made her sound heroic, and the doctor did, too. But I grew more convinced every day. I didn’t know how she was doing it. I didn’t know why. But I began to sit with them when she fed him, and soon I refused to leave him alone with her—ever. But he never got any stronger. The illness grew worse. He was wasting away, and she was getting weaker, too….
“Finally, I went into her room one day when she was out taking the air. I found two packets in her dresser. The first contained a white powder, the second a black one. I didn’t know what they might be, but I took them to my husband. He didn’t know what the black powder was, but he had no doubts about the other.” Mrs. Muhlenberg seemed scared to go on, but finally she got the word out: “Arsenic.”
Miss Howard seemed to guess that I was ready to bolt, and she put a hand to my arm to hold me where I was.
“Arsenic?” she said. “Was she feeding it to your son?”
“If you know about Libby,” Mrs. Muhlenberg said with a small hiss, “you know that she’s too smart to’ve done anything so bold as give it to him directly. And I was watching her whenever she was with him. Whenever she was with him—but not when she was alone. And that was my mistake…. My husband asked Libby why she had the arsenic. She said that she’d been woken one night by a rat in her room. As if we ever had rats…. But we couldn’t think of any other explanation.” Trying to hold down more sobs, Mrs. Muhlenberg gasped out, “Michael died soon after that. Libby played at being grief-stricken very well, and for days. It was only when we were burying my son that the truth came to me. Libby was standing there weeping, and I realized that her own health was returning. Suddenly, I saw everything clearly—so clearly…. She had poisoned him—she’d eaten the arsenic herself, and it had passed to him through her milk. Not enough to kill a grown woman, but enough to kill a baby. Satan himself couldn’t have been more clever.”
That was about it for me. “Miss Howard—” I whispered.
But she just tightened her grip on my arm, her eyes never leaving the dark corner across the room. “Did you confront her?” she asked.
“Of course,” Mrs. Muhlenberg answered. “I couldn’t prove anything, I knew that. But I wanted her to know that I knew she’d done it. And I wanted to know why. Why kill my son? What had he done to her?” The tears started to come again. “What could a baby boy do to a grown woman to make her want to kill him?”
I thought for a minute that Miss Howard might try to explain the theory of Libby Hatch’s mind what we’d worked out over the last few weeks, but she didn’t; wisely, I figured, being as even if Mrs. Muhlenberg could’ve grasped the ideas, she was in no emotional shape to bear them.
“She denied it all, of course,” Mrs. Muhlenberg went on. “But that very night …” One of her hands went up, pointing in the direction of the ruins next door. “The fire … my husband was killed. I barely survived. And Libby was gone …”
Another pause followed, and I prayed that the story was over. It turned out that it was, but Miss Howard wasn’t ready to let matters go at that. “Mrs. Muhlenberg,” she said, “would you be prepared to go before a jury and talk about your experiences with Libby? It might help.”
That awful, piteous moan floated across the room again. “No—no! Why? You can tell them—someone else can tell them! I can’t prove anything—you don’t need me—”
“I could tell them,” Miss Howard said, “but it won’t carry any weight. If they hear it from you, and see your face—”
At that the moan became another hoarse, terrible laugh. “But that’s what’s impossible, Miss Howard: they can’t see my face. Even I can’t see my face.” There was a terribly still pause, and with a sudden chill I realized what the fan was for: “I have no face. It was lost in the fire. Along with my husband—and my life …” The shadow of her head began to shake. “I won’t parade this mass of scars in a courtroom. I won’t give Libby Fraser that last satisfaction. I hope that my story can help you, Miss Howard. But I won’t—I can’t…”
Miss Howard took a deep breath. “I understand,” she said. “But perhaps you can help in another way. We’ve been unable to determine just where Libby came from. Did she ever mention her home to you?”
“Not exactly,” Mrs. Muhlenberg answered. “She talked many times about towns across the river, in Washington County. It was always my impression that she came from there. But I can’t be sure.”
Miss Howard nodded and, finally letting go of my arm, stood up. “I see. Well—thank you, Mrs. Muhlenberg.”
The old black woman had reappeared at the doorway to show us out. As we started toward the front hall, Mrs. Muhlenberg said, “Miss Howard?” We both turned. “Look at your boy’s face. Do you see the terror in his eyes? You may think it’s just his imagination. But you’re wrong—what was once my face is worse than anything his mind is conjuring up. Do you know what it’s like to terrify people that way? I’m sorry I can’t do more—and I hope you truly do understand …”
Miss Howard just nodded once, and then we moved on back outside, the Negro woman closing the door on us silently.
I moved for the buckboard as fast as I could, and was surprised when Miss Howard didn’t do the same. She was staring in the direction of the river and puzzling with something.
“Didn’t we pass a ferry station on our way into town?” she asked quietly, wandering toward the rig.
“Oh, no,” I answered quickly, fear making me a bit uppity. “I ain’t crossing that river tonight, Miss Howard—no, ma’am.” Then I remembered myself as I fumbled for my packet of cigarettes: “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way—”
Suddenly, I heard a very disturbing sound: footsteps, plenty of them, shuffling through the dry dust of the road. Both Miss Howard and I stepped away from the rig and stared into the darkness to the north, which soon belched out about ten of the men from the tavern. They were moving our way—and they did not, to put it mildly, look like they were interested in talking.
“Aw, shit,” I said (my general reaction to such situations); then I glanced around quickly, trying to figure out what to do. “We can still get away to the south,” I decided, not seeing anything in that direction what would indicate trouble. “If we move fast enough—”
The sound of a spinning revolver cylinder caused me to jerk my head back around. Miss Howard had her Colt out, and was checking the chambers with a look what said she meant business. “Don’t worry, Stevie,” she said quietly, as she hid the gun behind her back. “I have no intention of letting people like that push us around.”
I looked at the approaching band of drunken, sullen men, then at Miss How
ard again, and realized I was on the verge of watching something truly ugly take place. “Miss Howard,” I said, “there ain’t no reason for this—”
But it was too late: the locals had reached us, and fanned out in a line across the road. The man we’d spoken to when we first hit town stepped out front.
“We figured maybe you didn’t get our point,” he said, stepping closer to Miss Howard.
“What’s there to get?” Miss Howard answered. “You’re a mob of grown men, afraid of a single woman.”
“You’re not just dealing with us, lady,” the man answered. “When it comes to Libby Fraser, you’re dealing with this whole town. She’s done enough damage here. Nobody wants to have anything to do with her, nor with nobody that’s got any interest in her. And if that ain’t clear enough …”
The whole bunch of them took a few steps closer. I don’t know what it was that they intended to do to us, but they didn’t get the chance: Miss Howard produced her revolver, and leveled it at the lead man.
“You just back up, mister,” she said, her teeth clenched. “I warn you, I will have absolutely no difficulty putting a bullet in your leg—or something more vital, if you force me to.”
For the first time, the man smiled. “Oh, you’re gonna shoot me, are you?” He turned to his friends. “She’s gonna shoot me, boys!” he said, getting the usual variety of stupid laughs from his pals. Then he looked at Miss Howard again. “You ever shot anybody before, missy?”
Miss Howard just stared at him hard for a few seconds, then said, very quietly, “Yes. I have.” As if to punctuate the statement, she pulled the hammer of her Colt back quickly.
The sincerity of the words and the cocking of the gun were enough to wipe the smile off the man’s face, and I think he was about to turn around and call the whole confrontation off. But then a small, hissing sound cut through the stillness, and the man cried out, clutching at his leg. Yanking something out of his hamstring, he looked back up at Miss Howard, then slowly crumpled to his knees. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he keeled over onto one side, his hand out in front of him.
In it was a plain, ten-inch stick, what was sharpened at one end.
CHAPTER 37
Miss Howard and I gave each other quick looks of what you might call horrified recognition, as the rest of the men hustled to their friend.
“What the hell’ve you done to him?” one of the men shouted: a question I’d heard before, and under similar circumstances.
I could only get out the words “Believe me, it wasn’t us—” before the men picked up their friend and began to hustle him away in terror.
“You get the hell out of here!” one of them called. “And you stay the hell out!” With that they disappeared back in the direction of the tavern.
Miss Howard kept hold of her revolver, as we both spun to look all around. “Where is he?” Miss Howard asked in a whisper.
“In this darkness?” I said, also whispering. “He could be anywhere.” We didn’t move for another minute, but kept listening and waiting, expecting some move out of our small enemy—if in fact he was our enemy, which I was beginning to doubt. But there was no trace of any activity on the road or in the shadowy trees and shrubs what lined it, and that was good enough for me. “Come on,” I said to Miss Howard, taking her arm.
She didn’t need much persuasion, by that point, and in another half minute we were aboard our rig and heading north again, the little Morgan stallion moving at a nice trot. As we passed by the tavern, I could see a few pairs of angry eyes following us, and the body of the man who’d been struck by the aborigine’s arrow was laid out on the bar: how long he’d be unconscious, or if in fact he was dead, I didn’t know, and I certainly couldn’t have said why Señor Linares’s servant had once again come to our assistance. The first time, during our bout with the Dusters, might’ve been laid off to his arrow finding the wrong mark; but this second incident made it clear that the strange little man who’d seemed to threaten me with death on Saturday night was trying to keep us alive.
“Maybe he just wants to kill us himself,” I said, once we’d gotten half a mile or so out of Stillwater.
“He’s had more than enough opportunities to do that,” Miss Howard answered, shaking her head. “None of it makes any sense …” She finally shoved her revolver back into its hiding place, then took a deep breath. “You don’t have a cigarette, do you, Stevie?”
I shook my head with a small laugh, feeling relieved that we’d made good our escape. “You’d think people would get tired of asking me that question,” I said, going for my pants pocket with one hand as I let the reins slack a bit with the other. Pulling out the packet of smokes, I handed them to her. “Light me one, too, if you would, miss.” She put a match to two cigarettes, then handed one over. After taking a few deep drags off her own, she put her head between her hands and began to rub her temples. “You got pretty hot back there,” I said.
She managed a chuckle. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I hope you know I wouldn’t put you in danger deliberately. But that kind of insufferable idiocy—”
“World’s full of men like that, Miss Howard. Can’t go telling them all where they get off, and not expect a few to get riled.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “But there are certain times…. Still, I do hope you know that we were never in any real danger.”
“Sure,” I answered; then I took a few seconds to study my companion. “You really would’ve shot him, wouldn’t you?”
“If he’d touched either one of us?” she said. “Absolutely. Nothing like a bullet in the leg to make men mind their manners.”
I chuckled again, although I knew that she was perfectly serious. There probably wasn’t another woman in the world who was as comfortable with guns—or, for that matter, with shooting people—as Miss Howard. She had some very personal reasons for being that way, and it isn’t my place to recite those reasons here; she’ll take care of that job one day herself, if she’s so inclined. All that mattered to me that particular night was that when she said she would’ve shot a man to protect me, she meant it; and that knowledge allowed my nervous system to grow ever more calm, and my mind ever more inquisitive, as we traveled along the moonlit river road.
“How can she do it, Miss Howard?” I eventually asked, after smoking the better portion of my stick.
Miss Howard answered with a long, deep sigh. “I don’t know, Stevie. It’s the nature of people who are racked by feelings of powerlessness, I suppose, to try to exert power over whoever or whatever’s weaker than they are—and God help those weaker beings if they don’t play along. Drunken, frustrated men beat and kill women, women desperate to prove they can control something beat and kill children, and those children, in turn, torment animals…. Remember, too, babies may look charming to those of us who haven’t got any, but there are plenty of mothers who lose patience with all the noise, the sleeplessness, and the plain and simple work of nurturing.”
I was shaking my head. “No, that’s not what I meant. The actual killing, that part of it I’ve begun to understand. I think. But the way she makes other people act. How does she pull that off? I mean, look at what we’ve heard—and seen, too. Some people who worked with her in New York thought she was a saint; other people, in the same joint, thought she was a murderer. That poor fool husband of hers treats her like she’s his sole salvation—but then she goes around the corner and gets the likes of Goo Goo Knox more lathered up than any moll or streetwalker what’s ever been through the Dusters’ front door. Then we come up here and find out that in Ballston Spa people first thought she was a hussy, then a good woman—and then she got ranked as a hussy again. Now, we go to this damned place—Stillwater—and find out that the whole town’s scared to death of her! How the hell does one person pull it all off?”
“Well,” Miss Howard answered, with a slight smile, “I’m afraid that question’s a little more complicated.” She held her cigarette up and puzzled with a thought. “Try to think ab
out all the things you’ve just mentioned, Stevie—what’s the one quality that they have in common?”
“Miss Howard,” I said, “if I knew that—”
“All right, all right. Consider this, then: none of those personalities, those different ways that people see her, are complete. None of them is a description of an actual person—they’re all simplifications, exaggerations. Symbols, really. The ministering angel—the fiendish killer. The devoted wife and mother—the wanton harlot and brazen hussy. They all sound like characters out of a story or a play.”
“Like the—whatever—the ‘myths’ you talked about? That day outside the museum?”
“Exactly. And like those myths, what’s amazing isn’t that someone can come up with such characters—anyone crazy or just imaginative enough could do that. It’s that so many people—not just the citizens of towns like Stillwater but whole societies—actually accept and believe in them. And I’m afraid all that gets back to something that may be a little difficult for you to understand.” Miss Howard must’ve read something like injured pride in my face, because she put a quick hand to my arm. “Oh, I don’t mean because you’re not educated enough or smart enough, Stevie. You’re one of the smartest males I’ve ever known. But you are male.”
“Yeah?” I said. “And what’s that got to do with the discussion?”
“Everything, I’m afraid,” Miss Howard answered with a shrug. “It isn’t really possible for men to understand how much the world doesn’t want women to be complete people. The most important thing a woman can be, in our society—more important, even, than honest or decent—is identifiable. Even when Libby’s evil—perhaps most of all when she’s evil—she’s easy to categorize, to stick to a board with a pin like some scientific specimen. Those men in Stillwater are terrified of her because being terrified lets them know who she is—it keeps them safe. Imagine how much harder it would be to say, yes, she’s a woman capable of terrible anger and violence, but she’s also someone who’s tried desperately to be a nurturer, to be a good and constructive human being. If you accept all that, if you allow that inside she’s not just one or the other, but both, what does that say about all the other women in town? How will you ever be able to tell what’s actually going on in their hearts—and heads? Life in the simple village would suddenly become immensely complicated. And so, to keep that from happening, they separate things. The normal, ordinary woman is defined as nurturing and loving, docile and compliant. Any female who defies that categorization must be so completely evil that she’s got to be feared, feared even more than the average criminal—she’s got to be invested with the powers of the Devil himself. A witch, they probably would have called her in the old days. Because she’s not just breaking the law, she’s defying the order of things.”
