Against a Brightening Sky (13 page)

Dora pulled out her cigarette case and matches, holding them up to Melba. “Would it bother you if I smoke? I imagine the waiter won't bring the soup for some time.”

“Go right ahead.” Melba tugged off her gloves, tucking them into her bag and snapping it shut. She folded her hands together, no doubt hoping to hide they were as unsteady as her smile. “My husband delights in filling the house with cigar smoke. I'm quite used to the smell of tobacco.”

“Sadie told me the little that you'd confided in her. Your husband is the person you're worried about, if memory serves.” Dora leaned back in her chair, one arm folded over her stomach and a lit cigarette dangling from the other hand. She smiled, but watched Melba with slightly narrowed eyes. “Why don't you explain what concerns you while we wait? That way Delia and I will have an idea of what we're facing.”

I sat back and observed as well, searching for those things not visible in the surface world. A smoky fog surrounded Melba, obscuring her aura and making it difficult to see beyond pearly gray swirls. The haze grew thicker as I stared. Dora's gaze flickered to me, making sure I'd seen.

“What Sadie didn't tell you is that Gregor is my second husband. My first, Timothy Andersen, died of the black flu just after New Year's in 1917. I keep his name for social reasons.” Melba shifted nervously in her chair, fussing with the collar of her dress and smoothing down the tiny pleats marching across the bodice. “Gregor and I were married in Holy Trinity Cathedral on Green Street a few days before Christmas.”

Dora leaned forward, her attention even more focused. “Isn't that the Russian Orthodox church?”

“Yes, do you know it?” Dora nodded. Melba stared at her hand, a small smile softening her features, and ran a finger along the double row of diamonds and rubies set in her wedding band. “Gregor wanted to be married in his faith and to have his priest's blessing. He never said, but I think the ceremony made him feel he hadn't left everything behind. This ring is the only possession he had that wasn't lost or stolen when he fled Russia. It belonged to his grandmother.”

Dora flicked her cigarette into the ash stand behind her chair. She reached across the table to take Melba's hand, flinching noticeably but hanging on nonetheless. More than Melba's distress resided in that ring. “I'm guessing the trouble all started not long after you were married.”

“We had a month of peace before the nightmares started. He'd wake screaming and pleading with someone in Russian, and Gregor could never remember why, or what he'd said. That was terrifying enough.” Melba brushed away a tear and cleared her throat. “Then Gregor became convinced he'd heard someone, a woman, crying and wailing outside our windows. I couldn't hear anything, but this went on night after night. And Gregor kept insisting this was real, so one night I—I pulled back the curtains.”

She stopped speaking, staring blankly across the patio, her eyes focused on things only she saw.

“Melba, what did you see?” Dora leaned forward, a patient, coaxing tone in her voice. She squeezed Melba's hand, trying to regain her attention. “Talk to me. We can't help you otherwise.”

Melba jerked her hand away and folded her arms over her chest. Her gaze darted from object to object, lighting anywhere but on Dora. “At first I thought they were angels. They were so beautiful, their faces kind and gentle. But I thought to myself, why would angels be weeping outside our window … and they
changed.
” Her voice grew stronger and Melba looked right into Dora's eyes. “I didn't need to be told they'd come for Gregor's soul. Please, Miss Bobet, I need you to send them away. I don't care what it costs. Just keep them away from Gregor.”

I'd never have imagined feeling sorry for Melba Andersen. The few times I'd encountered her, she'd been petty and spiteful, and more than a little self-righteous about her opinions. But now I was moved to pity. She looked older, defeated, and utterly lost.

Dora's frown grew darker, and her long red nails drummed rapidly on the tabletop. I was all too aware that what Melba described was the same type of spirit as the union men claimed to have seen during the riot. Banshees or ghosts, they'd already demonstrated they had the power to turn friend against friend. If these spirits were after Gregor, I prayed they couldn't turn husband against wife.

When her nails ceased tapping on the table, I knew Dora had reached some kind of conclusion. “Bear with me a moment longer, Melba, and answer one last question if you will: Did your husband leave Russia before or after the revolution?”

She looked up, as startled and mystified by the question as I was. “Not long after. Gregor's mother was distantly related to the emperor, a cousin or some such, and it wasn't safe for him to stay. His escape was rather harrowing, but he was able to follow friends to California. There's a sizable community of Russian refugees in San Francisco. What does it matter?”

“Likely not at all.” Dora's smile was guileless, but I knew her too well to be fooled. She didn't ask meaningless questions. “But more information increases the chances of a good outcome. For now, I can put your mind to rest as far as possession and the need for an exorcism. I'm convinced that isn't what's happening in Gregor's case, but something else entirely. It's not unheard of for unscrupulous practitioners of the arts to conjure up phantoms much like you describe. Nightmares are all part of the same incantations. The sole purpose of these apparitions is to frighten an intended victim.”

Or flush them from hiding. Dora glanced at me and I saw the same thought in her eyes. The phantoms at the parade were meant to panic the crowd and strip away Alina's concealment. Jack and Gabe, Sam and the patrolmen on duty, never saw anything because they weren't supposed to see.

But Gregor wasn't hiding, or at least not very well. My mind cautiously circled the question of possible connections between Alina and Melba's new husband. The truth was, I didn't know enough about Alina to find an answer. Not yet.

Melba gaped, eyes wide with shock. “But why? Who would do such as terrible thing?”

“Someone with either a grudge against your husband or a vendetta against his family. My guess is the latter, but that's only a guess. As for who the practitioner is creating these phantoms?” Dora shrugged and gathered up her cigarettes, stowing them in her bag. She surprised me by shoving her chair back and standing, a sure signal we were leaving. I did the same, ready to follow her out. “I don't have the first notion. A person with enough money and determination might find a conjurer for hire, but not in San Francisco. No one living here would take such a commission. The rest of us wouldn't allow it. I will make inquiries, but I don't expect much will come from them.”

The waiter started out the café door, heavy tray carrying soup bowls, a lidded tureen and a basket of sliced sourdough bread balanced on one arm. Dora held up a hand and smiled an apology, sending him back inside.

Melba worried at her bottom lip with her teeth, thinking. “So what do I do? Things can't go on as they are.”

“I agree.” Dora tugged on her gloves, casting glances past me and toward the path to the street. “Explain everything we've talked about to your husband. Often knowing what's going on weakens the apparition's power. But I'm afraid my primary recommendation is that the two of you should leave San Francisco, at least for the foreseeable future. Don't tell anyone where you're going. Simply vanishing is best.”

“All right.” Melba stood and held her hand out to Dora, more upset and unnerved than before. “Thank you, Miss Bobet. A messenger will deliver your check by this evening.”

Dora barely touched Melba's hand before turning on her heels and striking out for the front sidewalk and the street. I wasn't nearly so sensitive to emotion as Isadora, but I couldn't avoid feeling anger rise off her in waves. That she didn't wait for me was a measure of how upset she was.

By the time I caught up with her, Dora was sitting in the car, talking to herself in a language I didn't know, and scowling. Getting into the car earned me a scowl as well, but I'd weathered other storms of Isadora's temper. I folded my hands in my lap and faced her calmly. Most of her foul moods passed quickly. This one proved to be no exception.

Dora had tossed her handbag onto the front floorboards. She reached down to retrieve it, her expression a bit sheepish. “In case it wasn't clear, I'm not angry with you, Dee. Discovering Gregor is Russian sheds a new light on things. Needless to say, this isn't a case of banshees taking up residence in the city. I thought I'd left these loathsome vendettas and practices behind when I left Europe. And I'll be damned if I'll let that kind of filth take root or flourish in San Francisco.”

“All right. That's perfectly understandable and I'm more than willing to help.” I gestured toward the people and the buildings around us. “This is my city as well. But perhaps you could explain in more detail before we embark on a grand crusade. I'm much better at cunning schemes if I have time to prepare.”

She rolled her eyes and started the car, barely checking oncoming traffic before pulling out and speeding away. “Don't worry, I'll make sure you're prepared. Much as I hate to push it back another few days, we need to postpone our visit to Sadie. Connor is as safe as we can make him for now. And springing this on her just as Jack comes home might be even more unkind. I won't rest easy until we check in on Alina at the settlement house. I need to make sure everything is quiet.”

“Putting a few wards around Libby's place might be wise as well. Just in case.” Alina was in more immediate danger, I knew that, but that didn't stop guilt weighing on me. Connor was my godson, my responsibility. “I'm guessing that whoever is after Gregor is involved with the people hunting for Alina.”

“Or the culprit in both cases is one and the same. That's the more likely explanation.” Dora rolled to a stop at the intersection, waiting for a heavily laden truck to creep up the steep grade. Her finger tapped an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel. “Don't think me cruel if I push Alina a bit harder about what she remembers. I may need you to keep Libby occupied when I do. This may take more force than Miss Mills is comfortable with.”

I shook off my guilt over Connor and keeping secrets from Sadie, concentrating on the matter at hand. “I'll do what I can. Alina needs to remember.”

Dora inched the car around the back of the truck until we were in the clear, her expression grim. “Yes, Dee, she does. I suspected before that something, or someone, had buried her memories purposely. Now I'm convinced that's the case. There's too much evidence of arcane intrusions into her and Gregor's lives to believe otherwise.”

I braced myself against the dash as Dora accelerated up the hill. Years of driving with her hadn't hardened me to her sudden bursts of speed. “And if pushing her to remember doesn't crack the shell around Alina's memories, what then?”

“I haven't planned that far ahead yet.” Dora's expression was decidedly sour. She grimaced before sending the car careening around a corner. “I'm sure I'll think of something. But purely as a precaution, it might be wise to have one of your cunning schemes in reserve.”

“I'll do my best, given the short notice.”

We'd reached the top of the hill and began hurtling down the other side, driving all thoughts of plans and schemes from my mind.

Instead, I shut my eyes and concentrated on holding on.

 

CHAPTER 7

Gabe

Gabe spent the morning at his desk, reading files full of witness reports and what little information they'd been able to gather at the scene. Honesty made him admit, if only to himself, that sitting still was all he was capable of doing. At least sorting through reports was useful.

Hours of squinting at page after page of cramped handwriting was giving him a headache, but Gabe kept working. Detective work wasn't glamorous or exciting. Most days consisted of sifting conflicting information, searching for a nugget of truth. A witness statement, or something a patrolman picked up at the scene, could be the key that led him and Jack to the people behind the massacre.

But he'd never know unless he kept looking. A headache was a small price to pay.

A complete roster of the dead was included in one of the coroner's reports. The list was longer than Gabe expected. Victims who'd died on the way to the hospital, or didn't make it through the night, had been added to those declared dead at the scene. The new deputy coroner must have spent all night and most of the morning putting the list together. Each victim's name and age were noted, as well as how they'd died.

He paid particular attention to people the gunman on the roof had singled out. Gabe hadn't found a pattern yet, but that didn't mean there wasn't one. If there was anything to tie these people together, he was determined to find it.

A dozen times or more he stopped himself from thinking that Delia's name could be on that list, or Jack and Sadie, that any of the dead children might have been Stella or Connor. He wanted to be grateful that none of the people he loved had died, but gratitude felt selfish. Others weren't so lucky.

Gabe sighed and forced himself to continue reading and jotting down notes. Gratitude was selfish. He couldn't bring himself to be sorry.

A heavy knock on the pine frame rattled the glass in his office door. He eased back in his chair, moving slow and taking care not to jar his ribs. “Come in.”

“Captain?” Marshall Henderson opened the door and leaned inside. “Dominic Mullaney is here to see you. One of the union officers is with him. Do you have time to see them now?”

He glanced at the clock above the door. Dominic was right on time. “Show them in, Marshall. And I'd like you to stay and take notes if you don't mind. That would be a big help.”