The Dark Farewell (8 page)
“Doc Pearson has her sedated, poor kid. Anyway, can you manage for yourself this morning?”
“Of course.”
Amy patted his arm and turned away. Flynn said suddenly, “Amy, is there more I can do?”
She looked at him with surprise. “Why, no. Not just now, David. Thank you for asking.”
Dr. Pearson poked his head out of one of the rooms down the hall and called to Amy. She excused
herself and hurried away.
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The Dark Farewell
Flynn went back upstairs and waited for the bathroom to be free. Casey stepped out and Flynn
explained to him what had happened.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Casey said. “She was a prime candidate. Had all the symptoms.”
Flynn raised his brows. “Are you a doctor?”
“Er, no. But we’re taught the basics.” Casey gave Flynn a sideways look and asked, “Feel like going
to grab some breakfast? I have time before I have to start on my rounds.”
“Sure.” It was not so much that Flynn wanted to have breakfast with Casey as he wanted out of that
house. What he really hoped was to see Julian that morning, but there was no sign of him so far, and he had no idea which of the rooms down the hall belonged to whom. Walking in on
Grand-père
Devereux would not be good. “I’ll get my hat.”
They walked down to a small diner and ordered eggs, hotcakes, ham and coffee for thirty-five cents.
They didn’t talk much. Flynn was preoccupied with thoughts of Julian and the night before. Had
Julian sensed Mrs. Hoyt’s death? Flynn didn’t, in theory, believe in that kind of thing, although he couldn’t deny odd occurrences during the war; men who had sensed that they or other men would die the following day. “The sight” his dear old superstitious Irish granny had called it. Some folks had it; you could only chalk so much up to coincidence.
“How long are you staying at Mrs. Gulling’s?” Casey asked. “I’m here for the week.”
“I’m staying a few more days.”
“Maybe we could get a drink tonight?” Casey’s green eyes were bright and alert. His smile was wide
and warm.
Flynn smiled back, but he felt disinclined to take him up on his offer. Casey was nothing like Paul
after all. He said noncommittally, “We’ll have to see how things are at the house this evening.”
“Nothing to do with us, is it?”
Us.
No it was nothing to do with them. Since the war Flynn had made a point of not getting involved in
things that weren’t his business. At least…to avoid personal involvement. He wrote about the injustices he saw, but he didn’t take them personally. He didn’t look for trouble and he didn’t make trouble his own business. As much as he had admired Gus, the way Gus had thrown himself heart and soul into the causes he’d covered in his stories, the war had convinced Flynn that a man, especially a writer, could do more good by keeping a certain distance, a certain detachment. Like a surgeon.
Perhaps that detachment had spilled over into his personal life. But without Paul…
But he didn’t want to keep dragging up Paul’s memory. It was beginning to feel uncomfortably like
he’d been hiding behind Paul’s ghost. Using the memory of Paul as an excuse for, well, participating in his own life.
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Josh Lanyon
He opened his mouth to say…something, but the waitress came to their table, cheeks flushed, eyes
bright. “Did you hear? There’s been another murder over Carbondale way. A girl named Theresa Martin.
They found her by Crab Orchard Creek and they say it’s exactly like the others.”
“What’s like the others?” Flynn asked.
The waitress lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “What it was he did to her.”
She bustled away and Casey reached for his coffee cup, saying grimly, “Damned ghouls.”
Flynn was inclined to agree, but maybe it was reassuring that even in a place like this people were still shocked by such violence. Wouldn’t it be a bad sign if they took it for granted?
After breakfast he and Casey walked back to the boarding house. A black hearse was pulling away as
they arrived. A police car was parked in the front.
“Swell,” Casey said. “The cops are going to be crawling all over this place thanks to that escapee
from a freak show.”
Flynn stared at him, at the unexpected venom in Casey’s voice.
A sheriff deputy stood outside the front door, and they had to identify themselves to get inside.
Amy met them in the front hall. “What’s going on?” Flynn asked, removing his hat.
“The sheriff is questioning Julian.”
“Why?”
But he knew why even before Amy said, “Because of the things he said during his show last night. I
think they must believe he knows about the murders.”
Flynn could hear the murmur of voices from the front parlor. “I thought they were in Cairo last week.
Didn’t the old man show them his train tickets?”
“He went down to the train depot this morning and I haven’t seen him since,” Amy said. “I’ve had my
hands full this morning.” She hesitated. “That boy isn’t… He’s not equipped to… Do you think you
could…?”
From the parlor he heard a voice say, “You’re some kind of colored, aren’t you?” This, followed by
Julian’s murmured answer.
Flynn nodded grimly to Amy and went into the parlor. There was a deputy standing inside the
doorway, but Flynn said, “I’m representing Mr. Devereux.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
Julian was seated on the sofa. He had not even had time to shave before being rousted out of bed. His hair was uncombed. He wore gray flannels and a white T-shirt. He looked thoroughly disreputable as he glanced up hopelessly at Flynn’s entrance. His somber eyes lightened, but he bit his lip and said nothing.
“Who are you?” the sheriff asked, taking a cigar from his mouth. He was a short man with a big belly, a bushy mustache and mud brown eyes.
“David Flynn. I’m a reporter for
The Atlantic Monthly
.”
44
The Dark Farewell
“A reporter! That’s what we don’t need around here.”
“But that’s what you’ve got,” Flynn said. “I’m here to make sure this kid’s not being railroaded.”
“Railroaded! What the hell do you mean railroaded? We’re just asking this young man a few simple
questions about how he knows things he’s got no business knowing.”
Julian leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, head in hands. “I don’t know anything,” he groaned. “I
keep telling you.”
“You got up in front of three hundred people and told them where Theresa Martin’s body was lying.”
Julian shook his head without looking up.
“I take it you’re not a believer, Sheriff…? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“McFadden. No, I’m not a-a
believer
. I’m a Baptist, for chrissake.”
“Is that McFadden with an ‘Mc’ or ‘Mac’? We like to spell names right in
The Atlantic Monthly.
”
McFadden’s gaze—reminiscent of a bear’s small, suspicious eyes—flickered. “I don’t see much of a
story here, Flynn. We’re only asking—”
“Mr. Devereux’s cooperation? As Mr. Edgar Cayce has helped the police on occasion with their most
difficult cases?”
“He has?” McFadden looked plainly taken aback. “He did?”
Flynn nodded. He had no idea if it was true or not.
Julian raised his head. “You don’t understand. I can’t…control it. It just happens.”
Flynn gave him a warning look and he fell silent, his mouth not steady, eyes sullen.
“Sure, and I can see why you would think that way because it’s a great story and it would get you
great coverage in the papers. And nothing else makes sense because the Devereuxs were in Cairo when these first murders happened.”
“So we’ve all heard a couple a times, but can he prove that?”
Flynn and McFadden turned to Julian. Julian sounded frightened as he said, “I gave shows Tuesday
through Saturday at the Gem Theater on Eighth Street. And there will be the train ticket stubs.
Grand-père
will have those.”
“
Grand-père
,” the sheriff said disgustedly.
“The Devereuxs are from New Orleans,” Flynn said. This area had been settled by French and
German and English and Irish settlers, so he wouldn’t expect to see the same prejudice that Italians or colored found.
“I know French!” The sheriff had his dander up. “I do find it convenient his grandfather is absent this morning.”
“The Devereuxs could hardly be performing in Cairo and committing murder two counties away.
Unless you think young Mr. Devereux really is a sorcerer?”
“I don’t believe in that hocus-pocus hooey,” the sheriff snarled.
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Josh Lanyon
“Then there’s your answer.”
McFadden stared at him. “And you don’t believe in that mumbo-jumbo either.”
“That’s not the point,” Flynn said. “The point is, without magical powers, Devereux couldn’t be in
two places at one time.”
The sheriff continued to eye him grimly, only partly convinced.
“Think what a fine story it would make,” Flynn suggested. “This young man using his talents to help
the police in their investigation. Why, the public loves this kind of thing. It would be nice to appear in a national paper for something other than the massacre, don’t you think?”
The sheriff stuck his cigar back in his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. “Meybee so,” he said
reluctantly. “Meybee so.”
46
Chapter Six
“I never know when it’s going to happen,” Julian said, staring at his hands.
“Speak up,” McFadden ordered.
Julian’s throat moved and he said more loudly, “Before I turned sixteen, the voices—the spirits—
came to me all the time. But then when I turned sixteen, I-I became ill. The spirits only come once in a while now.”
“Come every night you’ve got a show, don’t they?” McFadden asked. He added sarcastically, “Or are
you charging folks a pretty penny on the outside chance the Count of Monte Crisco is going to show up?”
Monte Crisco
. Well, that was appropriate from this pigheaded fool. Flynn was careful not to let what he thought show on his face. He said calmly, “You’re doing fine. Just tell the truth.”
Julian swallowed hard. He didn’t look up. “Last night, during the performance, I heard a woman
talking to me. A spirit. At first I was confused. Unsure of why she had come to me. She didn’t understand.”
He looked up, but he was talking to Flynn not McFadden.
“What didn’t she understand?” Flynn asked.
Julian closed his eyes. “She didn’t understand she was dead.”
McFadden turned to Flynn and Flynn shrugged.
“What happened?” McFadden questioned.
Julian drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. “It’s difficult when they don’t know yet. She didn’t
come to me willingly. She came because she was lost and heard my voice. She’s trapped on this side. They all are.”
McFadden asked, “Who?”
“The murdered girls.” Julian said carefully, “It happens sometimes with a-a violent death. They don’t have time to…to transition. And he’s done something to them.”
McFadden’s voice was dangerous as he demanded, “Who has? What’s he done?”
“He…cut them up.” Julian put his long, slim hands over his face. His voice was muffled and shaking.
“He’s cast some spell on them. An ancient spell. They’re held here, prisoner—”
“Horseshit!” McFadden jumped up, looking as though he wanted to strike Julian. Flynn rose too,
watching him, ready to intervene. Whatever McFadden read on Flynn’s face stayed his hand, but he said in a trembling, deep voice, “You’re a goddamned liar.”
Josh Lanyon
Julian lowered his hands. He looked terrified. “I’m not lying. Why would I lie? I don’t want it to be true—”
“What’s the name of this murderer then? She must know it, this spirit gal. What’s the name of the
man who killed those girls?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because you’re a liar. A goddamned liar and a-a mountebank.”
Flynn cut across the sheriff, his voice calm, although listening to himself he thought he must sound as loony as Julian. “Did you ask Theresa who killed her?”
Julian shook his head, his shoulders hunched defensively. “I had to tell her she had…crossed over. It was a shock to her and she fled. They do sometimes.” His wide dark eyes were absolutely sincere as they met Flynn’s. He might be a mountebank or he might be mad—or both. He believed what he was saying.
“All right then,” Flynn said. “You could summon her and ask, couldn’t you? You could hold
a…whatchamacallit? A séance.”
“You’re as crazy as he is,” McFadden exclaimed.
At the same time Julian said with great definitiveness, “No.”
Flynn ignored McFadden. “Why not?” he asked Julian.
“I told you I can’t control it.”
It was the first thing he’d said that Flynn suspected was a lie. “You could still try. You said she’s trapped on this side. She came to you once. She might come to you again.” He heard himself but dismissed the thought of what he must sound like. Maybe it
was
crazy, but it was logical too, wasn’t it? “You could summon her and you could ask her about the last thing she remembers.”
Julian was shaking his head with that exasperating scared stubbornness.
McFadden looked from Flynn to the younger man and said, “You know what I think? I think it was a
lucky guess. I think he knew eventually there was going to be another murder. That’s what everyone’s been saying. His kind like to shock and frighten folks. He said it to get a bigger audience. It just happened to be true.”
“He knew the dead girl’s name,” Flynn pointed out.
“Who says? Today everyone knows her name, so they’re saying he knew it last night. There’s no