A Barricade in Hell (18 page)

Jack ripped a familiar-looking yellow handbill off the pole. He read the notice over, doing a poor job of hiding surprise. “Well son of a … it's her. You need to see this, Gabe.”

Across the top of the handbill were printed dates and times for meetings and lectures, and an address for a church on Clement Street. The name of the speaker was printed in neat block letters underneath:
EFFIE LADIA FONTAINE
.

The color of the paper, the typeface, and the information were the same as the handbill retrieved from Amanda Poe's bedroom. But that's where the similarity between the two advertisements for Miss Fontaine's lectures ended. The differences were what struck Gabe hardest.

In the center of the page was a color photograph of a rather plain woman dressed in a crimson choir robe, arms outstretched as if to gather someone into an embrace. She smiled broadly, a garland of pale blue flowers crowning unbound dark hair. Even reproduced on cheap paper, the colors were bright and the image lifelike.

Officer Perry had explained about Lumière Autochrome plates after showing Gabe some color photographs in a
National Geographic
magazine. He'd confirm his hunch with Perry later, but he was dead certain this photo was taken the same way. The process was much more expensive than hand-tinting black-and-white photos, putting it out of reach of most amateur photographers. Reproducing images taken with Autochrome plates was expensive as well.

Effie Fontaine couldn't be more than a step up from a tent-show revivalist. That a traveling speaker would have that kind of money to throw away on handbills gave him pause.

Amanda Poe had attended Effie Fontaine's pacifist lectures, and Thad Harper had signed on for a night's labor with two of her followers. Both of them had gone missing. Miss Fontaine was the only link between the rich society girl and the struggling widower, a tenuous connection at best, and one that most people would consider a coincidence. But Gabe wasn't most people.

He stared at the picture, memorizing the face, trying to read who this person was from an image captured by a camera. Effie Fontaine's expression was pure sincerity and belief, her smile full of compassion. A camera wouldn't be able to capture the life in a person's eyes, nor the spark of personality that ink-and-paper photographs deadened. Still, the pose in the photograph was artful, designed to draw people in and inspire trust.

Gabe trusted the revulsion that shivered up his spine. “Mr. Glibert, have these men come around offering jobs in the neighborhood more than once?”

“Three, four times that I know of. Found men willing to work for them every time.” Glibert scratched his neck, leaving long, red welts on pasty skin. “They've been putting handbills up for weeks, but they met in my store only the one time.”

Jack looked up from scribbling notes. “Is Thad Harper the only man not to come home again?”

Glibert planted his cane firmly and struggled to his feet, arms shaking and eyeing Jack. No one would mistake his glare for anything but what it was, thinly veiled contempt. “I couldn't say, Lieutenant. Not my job to keep track. Now, if you're done with me, I've got work to do.”

Gabe moved to block Glibert's way inside. “One last question. Were you paid for the use of the store?”

The old man snorted. “Course I got paid. That's not against the law either. Now, unless you intend to arrest me, get out of my way.”

He tipped his hat and stepped back, letting Glibert hobble inside. The grocer stopped short of slamming the front door in their faces, most likely out of fear of breaking the glass and not out of any show of respect for officers of the law.

“Joey, do you have access to a phone?” The boy nodded and Gabe tore a blank page from Jack's notebook. He wrote out the address and phone number of the police station, and handed the paper to Joey. “Call us at the station if there's any news of your brother or you hear of anyone else who's missing. If Lieutenant Fitzgerald or I aren't there, someone will get a message to us.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Joey carefully folded the scrap of paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “A neighbor's minding my niece, but I promised to be home before supper. I best get the rest of these handbills posted and get back. With luck, Mr. Glibert won't rip them all down before people get a chance to read one.”

Curtains on the window nearest the door twitched shut. Gabe looked pointedly at the front of the store and took a step closer, certain the old man was watching. He raised his voice, wanting to make sure Glibert heard. “Don't worry about Mr. Glibert. I'll make sure he won't bother you.”

He and Jack waited until the boy had nailed up three notices on the pole outside Glibert's store, standing guard. Once Joey moved down the block, they started back the other way on Embarcadero, toward the construction site. The wind had died away to a fitful breeze, not a cold gale that blew full in their face. They made better time as a result.

Neither of them said much, but talking wasn't really necessary. Gabe and Jack both saw the yellow handbills nailed on every electric pole, fence post, and notice board they passed. Some were faded to the point the paper was almost white, victims of sun and age. Bright, fresh notices with new meeting dates were layered atop the old, splashes of sunshine against weathered wood. He couldn't begin to count the tattered pieces of paper or explain why he hadn't noticed before.

Now he couldn't stop seeing. Effie Fontaine's smiling face was inescapable.

 

CHAPTER 11

Delia

I'd put Dora to bed in the spare room as soon as we reached the house. She'd made a token protest, but I knew her well enough to recognize that was all show. Exhaustion dragged at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were narrowed with pain, all signs she'd pushed herself too far. How quickly she'd fallen asleep proved I'd been right to insist. Gabe and Jack might not arrive until suppertime or later, and I saw no reason for her not to rest until then.

Convincing Randy Dodd there was no need to patrol the outside of the house or stand guard at the front door was more difficult. He was an earnest young man, determined to fulfill Gabe's trust. We'd settled on him dragging a sitting room chair into the front hall, a vantage point that let him watch the front entrance and the doorways into most of the house. Seeing him comfortably seated and reading
The Saturday Evening Post
eased my conscience.

A part of me viewed Randy's staying here as unnecessary, an overreaction on Gabe's part. Isadora and I had viewed evidence from dozens of murders, consulted on Jack and Gabe's investigations for more than two years. Hints of the occult had crept into cases in the past, not as strong nor so gruesome, but undeniable. This was the first time Gabe had felt Dora and I needed protection just because we'd viewed a set of photographs, or handled a piece of evidence.

That in itself was disturbing. And if I was honest and paid heed to the disquiet that dogged my steps, the urge to roam room to room, peering into dark corners, I had to admit that having Randy in the house was a comfort. I couldn't talk myself out of the certainty that something was there and that if I just looked hard enough, I'd see.

Not knowing what—if anything—might be hiding ate at me. The possibilities kept unreeling in my head, ghosts and spirit creatures I'd learned of from Isadora, but had never seen. Walking always helped me think, even if the longest distance I walked was up and down the hall. That more than anything kept me from sticking to any one task.

After the fifth or sixth time I went between the sitting room and the kitchen, and peered into the bedroom checking in on Isadora, Randy glanced up from his reading and frowned. “Is everything all right, Delia?”

“Everything's fine. I'm a little restless and having a hard time settling down. That's all it is, nothing dire.” A flush crept up my neck and a bright, hot spot burned in my cheeks. Randy didn't know me well yet, certainly not well enough to recognize my quirks and habits. Jumping at the thinnest of shadows had concerned him for no reason. “Nothing to worry about, I promise.”

He looked me in the eye, making sure. Randy might not know what kind of threat he'd be called upon to protect me from, or if indeed there was a threat, but he took Gabe's charge to watch over us seriously. Once reassured that all was well, he went back to his reading.

I wandered into the parlor, determined to settle and be quiet until Dora woke. The kitchen was my workroom and where I was most comfortable, but our parlor was my second favorite room in the house. I spent a great deal of time there while Gabe was working. Large bay windows looked out over the side garden, ensuring the parlor was bright even on cloudy, overcast winter days. Summer gave me a view of the garden in full bloom, black and yellow bumblebees happily gathering pollen.

That wasn't the only reason I loved this room. The fireplace mantel was filled with family photographs, many of them gifts from Gabe's mother. After Matt Ryan was killed, Moira sold the egg ranch and went to live with her sister in Boise. She'd given me most of the photographs she had of Gabe as a child, portraits of Matt in uniform, and a photograph of Matt pinning Gabe's lieutenant bars on his dress uniform while Moira looked on, smiling and proud.

I'd added my own photographs of Esther, Sadie, and Annie to the collection. The 1906 fire took my parents and destroyed everything in our house, leaving me with only memories. That left me doubly grateful for the line of silver and walnut frames along the mantel and on the wall above. Not everything was lost.

My knitting bag was tucked into the corner of the parlor sofa, an activity that usually kept me well occupied. I pulled out the nearly finished carriage blanket I was making for baby Stella and set to work. Picking up a dropped stitch proved to be a challenge and concentrating on setting it right bled away most of the restlessness.

The line of frames on the mantel rattled and danced. Minor earthquakes were common, most so small and swiftly over, they passed nearly unnoticed. That was my first thought, but a glance toward the lamp on the sofa table showed the shade's beaded fringe hanging straight and still.

Laughter and a child's high-pitched singing filled the room, chasing away all thoughts of an earthquake.

A penny for a ball of thread,

Another for a needle—

Ask her where the money goes,

Pop! goes the weasel.

I stood, searching the room for the little girl ghost. She still evaded all my layers of charms and barricades, and crossed my threshold as she pleased. I refused to believe any spirit was so strong, she couldn't be shut out of my house.

She couldn't be allowed to have her way. By necessity, my will must be stronger. “You're still not welcome here, spirit. Twice I've told you to tell me what you want or to leave and not come back. This is the third time and the third time binds. Say your piece or go.”

She laughed again, grating and brittle, not at all like a child at play. A cool wind ruffled my hair, lifted the curtains on windows shut tight for the winter.

Every night when I go out,

The monkey climbs the steeple,

Take a stick and knock her off,

Pop! goes the weasel.

A large walnut frame over the fireplace slid down the wall and crashed to the floor, sending shards of shattered glass and splintered wood flying. Two more frames, a photo of Esther and one of Gabe's parents, jumped off the wall as I watched. They landed at my feet, showering the tops of my shoes with broken glass. That sent me scrambling away from the sofa and toward the other side of the room.

Frames flew across the parlor too quickly to dodge, driving me toward the wall and away from the door. I huddled against the pale yellow wallpaper, arms wrapped around my head. One by one, the photographs I'd cherished crashed into the wall next to my head, tearing the wallpaper and gouging holes in the plaster. Others smashed on the floor around my feet.

“Delia! What's going on?” I heard Randy's voice calling me and the note of alarm when I didn't answer. Not everything the ghost threw hit me directly, but she kept me pinned in place.

Two sets of running footfalls in the hall promised help. “Delia! Answer me!”

Not being able to escape proved both painful and terrifying. The backs of my hands stung with tiny cuts and pieces of glass lodged in my cuffs, threatening to slide down my sleeves. Blood matted my hair and trickled down the back of my neck.

In and out the corner store,

The monkey chased the people,

Ask her where the children go,

Pop! goes the weasel.

Mrs. Allen's poltergeist and the little girl ghost were one and the same. That was the only thought I could form and hold. Charms to send away harmful spirits, cantrips to seal entrances and forbid ghosts from crossing the threshold: all the words evaporated before I could utter a one. Fear was a small part of it, but the ghost's power to use my fear against me was a bigger factor. The ghost wanted me afraid and silent; that was clear. I just didn't understand why.

A tall curio cabinet tipped over, shattering the glass-paneled front and blocking the doorway. Large, razor-edged pieces of glass slid across the oak floor, coming to rest in the carpet fringe. A smaller fragment bounced and pain spiked up my leg. I screamed.

“Oh dear God … Dee!” A quick glance showed Isadora framed in the doorway, hair disheveled and clothing rumpled from sleeping on the guest bed. She planted both hands against the curio cabinet and pushed, but it wouldn't budge. “Randy, go help her. Hurry!”

Randy scrambled over the toppled cabinet, ripping his uniform pants on a jagged hook of glass still hanging from the front. He curled over me, providing shelter and blocking the rain of broken glass and splinters with his body. The ghost had run short of framed photographs and made a start on flinging books, vases, and small knickknacks. Sharp intakes of breath and a quickly stifled groan told me the ghost wasn't holding back or deliberately missing now that he was between us; she hit Randy more than once.