Giving Up the Ghost (14 page)

“Yes, we have some of his dirty plates.”

“Good,” McCarty said. “Delaney, did you find out where those sandwiches came from?”

“Yes,” he said. “The crew said they came from the kitchen here.”

McCarty nodded.

“Is that where Hopkins got his food?” he asked.

“Why, yes,” Delaney said.

“Then Calder and I have been poisoned as well,” he said. “The murderer is among the staff.”

“Molly O'Grady,” I said. “The bitch gave Calder vinegar pie.”

I pounded my fist into the grass and cursed myself for being so stupid.

“You're both going to recover, right?” I said. “You've asked for something from the druggist to cure you. You didn't eat that much, and surely there's an antidote. The water and whiskey would help, correct? And neither of you are night blind.”

“I'm sorry, Ophie,” McCarty said, and gave me his kindest and saddest smile. “The water was for our thirst and the whiskey, a general anesthetic. There's no antidote, no cure. Night blindness is a symptom of chronic poisoning, over a number of days or weeks. For a dose large enough to make us this sick this fast, it is surely fatal. White arsenic destroys the liver and other organs, and brings on death by heart failure. Even if we were to survive, we would be seriously impaired, because white arsenic damages the brain and breaks the nerves.”

The world spun.

“No,” I said. “That can't be right.”

“We will have to wait for the tests to confirm it,” McCarty said. “But my guess is that they will.”

“We've got to stop her,” I said.

I reached over and pulled Calder's revolver from his holster.

“No, Ophelia,” he said, grasping my wrist.

But I broke free of his grasp and struggled to my feet. My head felt like it was on fire, and my skin as if it were turned inside out. Every atom of my being rebelled against the knowledge that Calder and McCarty were dying. I staggered to the door, with Delaney close behind me. He caught my elbow, but I spun around with Calder's gun in both hands.

“No!” three voices called out.

Delaney dropped to the ground.

“She's got to be stopped,” I said, waving the gun.

It seemed an exceptionally heavy gun, and its polished frame and walnut grips felt cold in my hands. I lurched to the dining room, where I spotted her against the far wall, filling a cup from the coffee urn. There was a room full of people between us, and as I brought up the gun, some diners ran while others dove beneath the tables for cover.

“
Putain!
” I shouted.
“Salope!”

I pulled the trigger, but it wouldn't move. Nothing happened.

Molly laughed.

“So, the famous Ophelia Wylde finally picks up a gun,” she mocked, the Irish lilt now gone. “I thought that was one thing you wouldn't do. At least, that's what it says in your books.”

“You've poisoned my friends,” I said.

“The poison was meant for you,” she said, taking off her apron and tossing it to the floor. Then she removed her cap and undid the pins in her hair. She shook her head, and her hair fell to her shoulders.

“Why did you stick around?”

“I wanted to meet you,” she said. “And watch your friends die. Um, sweetness, you have to cock the piece before it will fire.”

“What?”

“Draw the hammer back.”

I looped both thumbs over the knurled part of the hammer and pulled it back until it clicked.

“There you go,” she said. “Now you're ready. But don't shoot yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it will be so loud that it will make our ears ring and we won't be able to hear each other talk, of course,” she said. “You really are quite bad at all of this, aren't you?”

“Why'd you poison Hopkins?”

Her face was the definition of smug.

“What was it that you searched for in his shack?”

She
tsked!

“You've had plenty of time, and you're still clueless,” she said. “How sad for you. Your involvement was a surprise, but then, it has made things a bit more fun, hasn't it?”

“What's your real name?”

She smiled.

“That, I will tell you,” she said, and stepped toward me.

“Stay back,” I said, threatening with the gun.

“My name is Moria,” she said.

“Who do you work for?”

She smiled.

“I'm the trance medium, psychic mercenary, and ace poisoner for R.J. Benson, the wealthiest New York financier that nobody has ever heard of,” she said. “He stays in the shadows, waiting for the right moment, and that moment is now. By this time next week, we'll control everything—the railroads, the telegraphs, the newspapers, the banks. People will submit, because they can't stand the uncertainty of being disconnected from the rest of the world. Once you've had a taste of instantaneous communication, there is no going back to the garden.”

“You're quite mad.”

That sly smile.

“Oh, but what a magnificently malevolent madness.”

“You said it was better that you poisoned my friends,” I said. “Why is it better than killing me?”

She smiled, and it was genuine this time.

“Because, dear,” she said, coming within ten feet, “just look what I've turned you into.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've turned you into
me
.”

I jabbed the gun at her while pulling the trigger, and there was an ear-splitting
bang!
The bullet flew high and wide and lodged into the far ceiling of the dining room, dislodging some plaster. My ears rang and wrists stung from the kick, sort of like after grabbing onto a piece of iron that somebody has whacked at the other end with a hammer. I tried to get my thumbs around the hammer again, to prepare for another shot, but Moria closed the distance between us and grasped the gun over the top with her right hand, pinching the cylinder between her thumb and fingers, preventing the hammer from moving.

“No, not quite like me after all,” she shouted, “because I would have put a bullet between my eyes. You seem to be as ineffective at murder as you are at detection.”

I thought I heard a train whistle blow.

She wrenched the gun from my grip and tossed it onto the nearest table, where it clattered among the dishes. Then she opened her left hand, revealing a dab of green powder in her palm. She flattened her hand and blew the powder in my face.

I felt dizzy and then went down. I could watch what was happening, but I could barely speak and hardly move.

Moria knelt down and whispered in my ear, “Not to worry,” she said. “You won't die. You'll just be incapacitated for a few hours. There would be no joy in killing you now, because then you wouldn't be able to watch your friends die, knowing all the while that you were to blame. Oh, just think of it—not a thing you can do. Except, perhaps, one thing.”

“What?” I croaked.

“Tell me where the key is that Hopkins was using the night he died,” she cooed. “An old brass camelback key. Avail Speedwell? It's not at the depot and wasn't in his shack. Tell me, oh just tell me, and I might leave you something in a little vial to save your friends.”

“Antidote?”

“Where's that key, Ophelia Wylde?”

She brushed the hair from my forehead.

“Dodge City,” I said. “The agency, my desk.”

She stood.

“The antidote?” I asked.

“Oh, you poor little idiot,” she said. “I lied.”

I began to cry.

“How weak,” she said. “And how predictable. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a train to catch.”

She walked slowly out of the dining room in the direction of the lobby and the front door. Delaney ran into the lobby, but Moria held up a hand, cautioning him not to move. He glanced at me, and I shook my head.

I heard the door open and shut.

A man in an apron and a tall chef's hat came out of the kitchen and surveyed the wreck of his dining room. Then he saw me, on the floor. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head.

“Ophelia Wylde,” he said. “Didn't you cause enough trouble in Chicago?”

“Shut up, Phillips,” Delaney said.

The young man knelt beside me.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Drugged.”

There was the rumble of wheels on the railway track, but not the usual huffing sounds a locomotive makes. It was more of a hum, which increased in volume but deepened in pitch. Then it was gone.

“We've got to go after her,” he said.

“No,” I said. “Calder and McCarty first.”

With difficulty, I told Delaney about the list in my pocket, and told him to take it to the druggist and bring him back. Then I grasped his arm.

“The power doctor,” I said. “Doyle Creek. Find her.”

Then I lost consciousness.

“Am I blind?”

“No,” I heard Delaney say. “The lamps are out and the curtains are drawn.”

“Why?”

“Because Granny Doom wanted it that way,” he said. “How do you feel?”

I sat up in the darkness and heard the bed squeak beneath me.

“My head hurts, like I've had too much to drink,” I said. “I had a dream I was flying, that I was an owl searching in the night for something. Is there news?”

“The druggist, Karl Schmidt, came with the requested equipment,” Delaney said. “He was familiar with the tests Dr. McCarty had in mind, and he tested the vinegar pie given to Calder, the scraps of food found on the plates in Hopkins's things, and scraps of the sandwiches from the
Ginery Twitchell
.”

“What kind of test?”

“Schmidt called it a simplified Marsh test, whatever that is,” Delaney said, then he recited what he had learned. “He passed hydrogen sulfide through a solution containing the suspect material, and a yellow precipitate formed, indicating the presence of white arsenic. He said it would not stand up in court, because the yellow precipitate would turn clear in a few hours, but it was enough to confirm McCarty's suspicion.”

I knew what the Marsh test was. What detective wouldn't? Before the test was perfected by the chemist James Marsh in 1836, there was no way to prove arsenic poisoning. That's why arsenic has long been called “inheritance powder,” because it is odorless and tasteless—and readily available, since it is used to kill rats—and it is easy to slip into the intended victim's food or drink, resulting in symptoms that mimic any number of natural diseases. While arsenic poisoning was still rather easy to commit on the unsuspecting, the Marsh test proved the presence of the poison, and also provided a way of fixing the results, in the form of a silvery-black stain on a piece of ceramic, something jurors could see for themselves.

“There will be time to conduct a proper test later,” I said. “What of Granny Doom?”

“The power doctor,” Delaney said. “She said the powder that was blown in your face was jimson weed, and that you would fall into an uneasy sleep and have strange dreams. She said you would be on your feet in a few hours, but wanted me to stay with you in case you became frightened.”

I heard the scratch of a match, followed by the sizzle and the orange flame. He lifted the globe of a kerosene lamp and lit the wick, adjusted it, and put the globe down.

We were in room 312.

“Where's Calder and McCarty?”

“With Granny Doom,” he said. “They're down at the mill.”

“The mill?” I asked. “What in the world for?”

“Granny said she needed running water beneath them.”

“Why?”

“To keep away witches.”

“Me, she means,” I said, rising a bit unsteadily. “Well, let's go and show her I'm no witch.”

“Are you sure you feel up to it?”

“You can stay here if you want, but I'm going to the mill,” I said. I pulled on my coat and shoes, then made my way a bit unsteadily down the stairs, and went out the back door of the hotel. He followed me. The night sky was filled with pink and green tendrils of writhing light. The wind had come up, making the trees sway.

“What time is it?”

“Late,” he said. “A few minutes to midnight.”

As we neared the mill, I could see lights in the interior. The machinery was silent now, the water diverted from the wheel. Everything was quite still except for the lapping of the river upon the bank, which sounded like someone asking in a low and gentle voice to be freed.

We went through the unlatched door and found Calder and McCarty on the floor, with their shirts undone. They were head to foot within a white circle chalked on the planks, with a flickering candle and a Bible at the center. Just outside the circle was a pan of what looked like milk.

Near the Bible in the circle was an aged woman, gnarled as an oak, with a head of white hair that was pulled back tight and tied with a scrap of leather. Her billowing dress was black, there was a necklace of mussel shells around her neck, and a green sash circled her waist. Her eyes were shut and her paper-thin lips were moving quickly, reciting a barely audible prayer. With both hands, she cupped a lumpy brownish green object, about the size of a walnut.

It was the madstone.

Delaney and I sat down on the floor. The wheels and shafts and belts and other apparatus fixed to the ceiling made it seem, in the flickering light of the candle, as if we were in some kind of cave, with stalactites hanging over us. The sound of the water below was like some subterranean river.

When she had finished her prayer, Granny Doom opened her milky eyes and touched the madstone first to McCarty's bare chest, and then to Calder's. Their eyes were shut and their bodies limp, and they were breathing fast and shallow.

Granny Doom dropped the stone into the pan of milk, where it floated and made a strange hissing sound. I thought that might be a good sign, but the old woman shook her head.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“It's not enough,” she said, in a voice that was surprisingly vigorous. “The stone has been passed down, mother to daughter, in my family since before the time of the Old Pretender. It has absorbed every bitter and vile thing for seven generations, but I am afraid it cannot help your friends.”

“Why?” I cried.

“There's too much poison,” she said. “And not enough power. The stone can only do so much. They are already on the shore of beyond, waiting to be ferried across the great river to the other side.”

“What if we prayed, too?” I asked.

I got on my knees and clasped my hands together.

“
Our Father, who art in heaven—
”

“No, girl,” Granny Doom said. “Now, it's not a matter of praying more, or praying harder. I've said every healing prayer I know, and have said them with my heart as well as my lips, and yet the stone still floats. The cost is too high.”

“We'll pay you,” I said. “Young Delaney here is with the railway, and he can arrange for whatever amount you want. It will be a loan, Delaney. I'll work for the rest of my life to pay if off. Whatever it costs, you must save them.”

Granny Doom shook her head.

“You don't understand, lass,” she said. “It's not a matter of silver. It never is. Just as the mad-stones must never be sold, but only passed down, so it is with the healing. You can't pay the price with money.”

“Then what?”

“A sacrifice,” she said. “Something that is a part of you.”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”

This all was familiar to me. A long time ago in New Orleans, when I was young and incautious, I had put my trust in the wrong man and flirted with stealing power, and had nearly been ruined by it. But a price was paid, and I recovered—in time.

“I will give a hand, or a foot,” I said.

Granny Doom stared at me.

“An eye,” I said. “Both eyes, if that's what it takes.”

“You don't get to bargain, as if you were shopping for a Christmas ham,” Granny Doom said. Then she laughed, and her laugh was like the rustle of grave clothes. “You agree to pay, or not. Only later do you find out what it was you gave up.”

“I don't like this,” Delaney said. “It's frightening me.”

“That's good,” Granny Doom said. “It should scare you, young man.”

“The devil often tricks the desperate,” I said.

“There are no tricks here,” Granny Doom said. “You won't wake up to find your soul has been taken from you, or that someone else you love had died in their place. It may well be that you will lose a hand or a foot or an eye because of this, or be kicked by a horse or fall sick and become an invalid, but then again it might be something else.”

“What else?”

“You might lose something even dearer than your health.”

Calder coughed and turned his head.

I scrambled around so that I could pillow his head in my lap, my right hand resting on his cheek. His eyes fluttered open.

Calder blinked.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“What in the world do you have to be sorry for?” I asked.

“For not telling you how I really felt,” he said. “I love you.”

“Oh, Jack,” I said. “I always knew.”

He closed his eyes.

“Take care of Doc,” he said weakly.

I reached out and touched McCarty's leg with my other hand.

Tears streaked my cheeks like rain on glass.

“All right,” I said. “Whatever the cost, I agree. Whatever the price I have to pay, I'll do so gladly. Just so long as they live. So long as they are restored to health. This is all my fault, and I should bear the burden, not them.”

Granny Doom thrust the Bible at me.

“Swear on it,” she said.

The book was putting off a golden light.

Delaney shrank back into the shadows, terrified.

I reached out my right hand and placed my palm on the leather cover.

“I swear it,” I said.

There was a clap like thunder and the candle flame flickered, as if in an unseen breeze. The light from the book rippled and spread like waves over us, just as if someone had dropped a stone in the middle of a pond.

Granny Doom put down the Bible, took up the madstone, and rubbed it in a slow circle against Calder's chest. She did the same thing with McCarty, all the while reciting a verse from the fifth chapter of James, “and the prayer of faith shall save the sick.” Then she dropped the madstone back into the pan of milk, where it sank to the bottom, and the milk turned an ugly, dark green.

She picked up the pan and thrust it toward me.

“Drink it,” she said.

“What?”

“You must drink it,” she said. “All of it.”

My stomach turned at the thought, but I took the pan with both hands and brought it to my lips. The smell was indescribable, something that evoked necrosis and putrefaction. I drank two swallows, and then my gag reflex closed my throat, and I put the back of my hand to my lips.

Then I took a breath, closed my eyes, and drank. I kept drinking until I had to tilt my head back to get the last drops, and the madstone clicked against my teeth.

“Good,” Granny Doom said, taking the pan from me. “Very good.”

I felt like my digestive tract had turned inside out.

“Will it kill me?” I asked, folding my arms across my stomach and gently rocking.

“No,” she said, “because you spoke the truth about paying the cost.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because if you had been lying,” she said, “you'd be dead by now. The feeling will pass,” she said. “Everything does, in time.”

Then Granny Doom knelt beside McCarty, and tugged open his eyes with her thumb, looking into the pupils. She muttered something to herself, and then scooted around and did the same for Calder.

“Well?” I asked.

“They will live,” Granny Doom pronounced.

As if in response, McCarty gave a groan and sat up. Propping himself on an elbow, he looked at his surroundings, and at Granny Doom, and at Calder, stretched inverted beside him.

“What foolishness is this?” he asked.

“The usual kind, Doc,” I said. “Get some rest for now, and I'll tell you all about it later.”