Four and Twenty Blackbirds (21 page)

That was the first time I'd ever heard him say her name, and there was venom in it, even with the polite title before it. He turned to me and his voice retreated to an apology. "I never saved her from Malachi. She came into my quarters and announced he'd been here, and that he'd tried to hurt her but she'd gotten away. That's when she told me she wanted to go get you."

"Why did you let her lie to me?"

"She thought you wouldn't believe her unless she said I'd helped. I'm sorry about all this. If I'd known what she was really up to I would have never let her go to you. I mean, it doesn't catch me altogether unaware, but I didn't think she'd let it go so far as this."

Eliza coughed and opened her angry little eyes. "I'm not dead, you know. Or deaf."

"Too bad for us," I said, descending the stairs and stopping at her feet. "Did you really think that would work?"

"You fell for it just fine."

"I most certainly did not. I was curious enough to play along. There's a difference."

She laughed, sharp and staccato. "You don't want me to believe you'd have come here if you thought Malachi was waiting for you?"

"Sure I would have. I half expected it. And in case you hadn't noticed, Malachi has never been the most effective assassin. I hope you don't expect me to believe you thought he could kill me? You even knew I had a knife. Was that only to give me a false sense of security, or are you as fed up with your crazy nephew as I am?"

"He'll get you yet." She scowled like a television villain, but she didn't answer further. There was little else for her to say.

"No, I don't think he will, Tatie. But I got
him
pretty good. He's going to need a doctor, and soon. He can't go on bleeding like that and expect to live very long. Harry, perhaps we should call the police, or maybe even an ambulance, since I'm feeling charitable. If they do another helicopter run over these grounds—"

"Not yet." He came forward and lifted the gun from its position at his side, raising it until it was nearly in Eliza's face. "We're not finished here."

We all held still and stared back and forth at one another. Harry's arm was steady and the shotgun did not waver.

"Harry?" I couldn't believe it. "Harry, what are you doing?"

Eliza didn't believe it either. "Get that thing away from me. What do you think you're doing?" But something about the way she asked it hinted she already knew the answer. She was not as shocked as she let on, that much was apparent.

"Come on, you two," I broached, trying to sound as light as possible. "What's all this about? Harry, I know you don't need that." He didn't need it unless he was going to whack her upside the head with it, anyway. I hadn't seen him reload, and he'd used both shots on the door. I had to assume that Harry was well aware of this, but the odds were better than good that Eliza didn't know enough about guns to know he couldn't shoot her if he tried.

He ignored me, and kept his eyes and the business end of the barrels on the old woman. "Where's the book, Eliza? What did you do with it?" he asked calmly, coolly.

She tried not to flinch. No, she didn't know he was out of ammo. The way her eyes fixated on the end of the barrel said as much. "There is no book."

"You know that's not true as well as I do. As well as Eden does. Eden, why don't you refresh her memory. She's quite old. Perhaps she needs a good jogging."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing, except that I knew I was watching him menace her with an empty shotgun. I took this to mean that he didn't really intend to hurt her any, though the temptation to jog Eliza's memory with the back of my hand was almost more than I could resist. But no. I restrained myself. "It's filled with ritual magic," I offered a verbal jogging instead. "There's a dried-out hand mounted inside the back cover. It used to belong to a guy named John Gray. Your brother was a big fan of his."

"I don't know where your stupid book is. I'm a God-fearing Christian, and I don't have your crazy magic book."

"God-fearing Christian—like hell." Harry said it before I had a chance to. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a grunt of frustration. "I've spent eight years combing this place—every inch of it—and I've found enough to know that you're no God-fearing Christian, but I've not yet found that book. And you
have
to have it. There's nowhere else it could be except somewhere in your possession."

"Eight years," Eliza spat. "Yes, eight years that I've trusted you. And this is what I get for it? You would betray me over some stupid book! A stupid book that doesn't even exist," she added, sticking to her story.

"People are dying because of that stupid book!" he shouted back at her, bringing the gun within an inch of her nose. "People are dying and you know it! Don't talk to me about betrayal—and for God's sake, don't talk to
her
about it." He pointed at me and I waved, wiggling my fingers.

"You don't know what you're talking about. And you don't know half of what you think you know." She hauled herself to her feet and stared defiantly up at him, ignoring the enormous shotgun. "Get out of my house," she directed, lifting one gnarled finger and gesturing up at the stairs. "You too—" She bobbed her head at me. "Both of you, get out. I'm through with the both of you."

But Harry was done following orders, and he was the one with the weapon. "No. I don't think we will."

"Actually," I interjected as unobtrusively as I could, "I'd rather like to be on my way, if that's okay with you. She says she's finished with me, and that's fine. I'd like to be finished with her as well." I didn't blow his cover by following my request with, "And besides, that's not loaded anymore," because, hey—he was frightening Eliza, and that was all right by me.

"Don't go," he said, but it rang more like a request than a command. The gun was still trained on Eliza, but his eyes met mine sideways. "Stay and help me look for that book. You may not know it, but your life depends on us finding it."

I stood still and thought about it for a second. He knew how to get a girl's attention, that's for sure. "What do you mean?" I asked, not wanting the answer but probably needing it, regardless.

He waved the gun towards the top of the stairs. "Bring her up and let's get her secured. I'll explain while we start hunting."

Eliza's eyes were a dare, but I met them anyway. "You heard the man," I said. "Let's go. Get those little legs moving."

"And if I refuse? I don't think he'll shoot me, and I don't think you'll hit me, either."

"If you refuse, then you'll look mighty strange slung over my shoulder like a gunnysack. And don't think for a second that I won't do it. For that matter, don't be so sure I wouldn't hit you. If I were you, that's not a bet I'd take."

She sniffed, then stuck her nose in the air and started up the stairs once more.

Harry was waiting for us at the top.

III

Harry affixed Eliza to one of the dining room chairs with an extension cord. I watched from the other side of the room, still uncertain what I should make of this shift in alliances. He did not speak until he had her wrists and ankles tied, and then it was to offer her one last chance to be helpful.

"Tell us where the book is."

"No. I don't know what you're talking about."

He wadded up one of the cloth napkins and held it up to the side of her face. "Is that your final word on the subject?"

"Yes."

"Fine." He stuffed the napkin into her mouth and strapped one of the curtain ties around her jaw to hold it there. "Then you'll at least be out of the way."

"Harry, I don't know . . . we've got to let her go sometime, and she's going to run straight to the police. I don't need that, Harry. I really don't."

"She isn't going to the police," he assured me. "She can't tell them anything about us without her harboring Malachi coming into it. And she
has
been harboring him, you can bet on that. Furthermore, you can bet she'll continue to do so once we're gone. He's gone off to lick his wounds, but he'll come back. He's got nowhere else to go."

"But he's hurt. Maybe badly. Didn't you see him when you came downstairs? He's bleeding like a stuck pig."

"I'm sure his
God
will take care of him," Harry said with a sneer. "Malachi always comes back. Surely you know that better than anyone. You're probably right, and he probably didn't go far, but that doesn't mean they'll catch him—even if we called the cops ourselves, right this second. They hunted around this place all today and all yesterday and couldn't turn him up. He'll hide as long as he has to, and then he'll be back for more trouble."

"He does seem to have a knack for it," I admitted, shuffling my feet and trying to ignore Eliza's evil, beady eyes.

"He's getting some kind of help," Harry admitted, "but I'm pretty sure it's not God who's feeding him information."

"Then who? Or what?"

He put his hands on his hips and stared up and down around the dining room. "Couldn't say. But right now, believe it or not, Malachi is not the worst of our worries. We've got to find that book."

"Yeah—about that book—you said my life depends on us finding it. I don't suppose you'd mind elaborating on that point, would you?"

Harry quit scanning the walls and floor and met my eyes with what appeared to be genuine concern. "It's very hard to explain. And I don't want to frighten you."

"Oh, good grief. Try me. You'd be surprised what I understand, and besides, when you mentioned my life was on the line you officially entitled me to an explanation."

"Yes, you do deserve one," he agreed, but he wasn't ready to fill me in yet, so he didn't. "I've checked the servants' rooms quite thoroughly, and I'm almost certain she hasn't hidden anything in there. She'd be more likely to keep it closer to herself anyway, and the places that I haven't been able to search have been those she spends the most time in. Let's start in her bedroom, shall we?" He finally paused to acknowledge my narrowed eyes and firmly set lips, and then sighed. "And I promise, I'll tell you everything I can while we look. But the most important thing of all is that we find it, and quickly."

I agreed to his terms and followed him up a flight of stairs into a hall. We passed several bedrooms that were furnished, but clearly unoccupied; and at the end of the row was Eliza's room. It looked much like I would have pictured it, had I bothered to give the subject any thought. Her bed was a giant four-poster canopy, and the vanity and dressers were made to match it. Old-style oil lamps were mounted on the walls, casting a flickering warmth across the maroon-and-ivory furnishings. Across the room on the far wall there was a window, but I couldn't imagine that it had been opened any time recently. The room was stuffy, smelling of medicine, dust, and dried flowers.

"This is where she lives?"

"Yes," Harry said. "And the book must be here someplace."

But I heard the doubt in his voice. "You aren't certain?"

He rubbed at his forehead, then at his eyes. He was not old, not in comparison to Eliza, but he was older than the folks who'd raised me. I might have guessed he was a well-preserved sixty, and those decades showed, but he was not at all fragile. He'd handled himself as well as a younger man when Malachi had posed a threat. I wondered who he'd been and what he'd done before coming into Eliza's service.

I would have asked him directly, but in the course of the explanation that finally followed, he answered everything well enough.

"You're right. I'm not certain the book is here—or more accurately, I'm quite terrified that it's not. If it isn't, then I've come all this way and spent all this time for nothing. And it may have cost . . . a great deal."

"How so?"

Harry reached for a corner of the bedspread and gave it a yank. Once the covers were off, he began to root around between the mattresses. I took his cue and started opening drawers, sifting through cream-colored girdles and stockings.

"I'm not sure how to begin," he said.

I insisted on the cliché. "Try the beginning."

"Which one?" He threw up his hands. "Or whose? You already know of John Gray, it would seem, and that is the
very
beginning. Sort of. You know how he died?"

I shut one drawer and opened another. "I know he was hanged for witchcraft."

"Yes, that's brief, but it's correct. On September twenty-nine, 1840, four priests from St. Augustine's church went out under cover of darkness. They carried with them rope, pistols, and the Word of God. John Gray had been waging a war against the clergymen, testing his powers even to the point of killing two of them, though it would have been impossible to prove."

"Why?"

"Because he was using black magic. He'd first practiced on ordinary people—on people who'd angered or offended members of his community. But as he grew stronger he began to play games with the Church as well, sending his ghosts and his devils to haunt, to torment, and even to commit murder. It could not be tolerated, but it could not be stopped without putting a permanent end to Gray himself; so four brave men took on the danger and went after him. Two went into the camp and dragged him out, and the two others were waiting with a coach to spirit them away. They took him to the town square and hanged him before his followers had a chance to retrieve him.

"But then came another beginning. Gray's wife cut off his hand before he was buried, intending to raise him from the dead."

"Juanita," I said.

"Yes, Juanita. She was a Spanish colonial woman who had fled her family to marry him a few years before. She took his hand and then they buried him, leaving his body to await the promised resurrection. When the priests learned of this, they dug him up and burned the rest of his remains, just to be on the safe side.

"I think they can hardly be blamed for their caution, for even once Gray was gone, his cult lived on. His followers became a pestilence to the community and were routinely run off or hung. Thankfully, none of them were so strong as their first martyr had been. At least, not at the time."

He retrieved a bundle of papers from between the mattresses and paused, hoping he'd found something of import. But upon a quick examination, he dropped them onto the nightstand and continued his quest and his story. "Now, Eden, tell me—what do you know of Avery Dufresne?"

Ah, here was the connection. "I know he was Eliza's half brother, and that he was considerably older than she is. He had a child who was a great-grandparent of mine—or some such. The relationships confuse me. I'm not sure how it all fits together."

"The relationships
are
convoluted, that much is true. Avery married Mae Jones and they had at least one legitimate child together, but Avery packed up his wife and her two sisters and headed south with the whole crew, and they were never seen or heard from again. However, the middle sister, Willa, had given birth to a child some years before that was believed to have been Avery's as well. This child remained with relatives when Avery and his harem took off. That was James, who was your mother and aunt's grandfather. But Avery also had another child by another woman, back before he met your grandmother. From that came a line of cousins I suppose you are unaware of."

"You're right—I thought we were pretty much it. You seem to know an awful lot about my family. Did you know who my father was?"

"Yes, but it was hardly my business to tell you, now was it? And it has become something of my job to know. That's where another beginning comes in—and don't worry, it works its way back around to Avery. I'm not going as far off topic as you think."

"Okay."

About that time Harry gave up on the bed and turned to the wardrobe against the far wall. In it were rows of old-fashioned dresses and skirts, jackets and robes. He pushed them aside and pulled them out a few at a time, examining them and then tossing them on the undone remains of the bed.

My luck wasn't any better. I'd made my way through all the dresser drawers and had decided to try her bathroom. "Go on," I said as I opened the narrow door. "I'm going to check in here, but I can still hear you."

"Very good. Yes, it was another beginning. And this thread of the story I think will be mostly news to you. After Gray was dead and Juanita was raving out in the swamps about bringing him back, the threats began. At first they were vague and without any substance, but gradually they became more specific. Gray's cult was determined to avenge him, and they began by bringing about the deaths of the four men who'd collaborated in his death. One by one they died of agonizing, lingering illnesses, and after each death Juanita would leave behind some token claiming responsibility. The day each man died, a bloody swatch of cloth cut in the shape of a man would appear nailed to the door of the room where he passed on. No one ever saw anyone deliver this calling card, and no one ever heard the nails being pounded in. But everyone knew who was responsible.

"Then, one after another
other
members of the clergy began to die as well. The group was nearly down to nothing, and those who remained either fled or lived in terror. Just when they thought St. Augustine's church might close forever, a smallpox epidemic seized the city, and although many perfectly ordinary, decent people died, so also did Juanita Gray. Thus, the mysterious deaths ended. When the plague had passed, it seemed as though all had returned to normal.

"Then, roughly around the time your grandfather Avery fled Tennessee, things began again. By then the church had been restocked with a fresh supply of God's servants—in fact, most of them had nothing at all to do with Gray's killing, if they even knew of it at all. But within a month, three died; and a month later, two more. It was then that we received the warning."

"Uh-huh," I said from the bathroom, and the indistinct syllables echoed off the grayish ceramic tiles. The room was clean, but the fixtures likely hadn't been updated since they'd been put in. Although it seemed in no way large enough to hold the missing book, the medicine cabinet appealed to my nosiness and I opened it, swinging the mirror aside.

Harry prattled on from the master suite. "One morning a priest found a letter tacked to the confessional. It said, in short, that John Gray would never die, and that there remained one hundred and fifty years to retrieve him. His followers had found a new leader, and together they were conserving and concentrating their powers. And when Gray returns and his vengeance becomes complete, neither the church nor anyone within it will remain standing."

"Heavy threat," I called, reaching inside the cabinet. Mostly it was filled with the ordinary sorts of things an old lady would have—prescription medications, a pair of nail clippers, some eye drops, and some cotton swabs—but also there were two slim glass bottles stopped with corks.

"It was no idle threat, either. The church tried to keep an eye on the doings of Gray's cult, but it was a difficult task. Not only did they live out in the woods but they were a tight-knit group with a tendency to kill anyone who asked too many questions about them. The information we
do
have has taken one hundred and fifty years to accumulate, and it has cost more than a few lives."

"So they—this cult of John Gray's, I mean—it's still up and running? There are still people who are trying to bring him back to life? I thought his body was burned. What are they planning to raise, a cloud of ashes?" I held one of the glass bottles up to the light. The label was a piece of notebook paper that had been affixed with Scotch tape. "Half of this at a time," it read. Sure enough, the bottle was about half-empty.

"Yes, something like that. This is why it's taken them so long to get their act together, and this is where the threat to you comes in." In the next room, Harry quit digging through Eliza's things and came to stand in the doorway. "Tell me," he said quietly. "Your aunt—the one who raised you. How is she doing?"

I set the odd little bottle on the edge of the sink and turned to face him. "What do you mean, how's she doing? She's fine."

"Are you sure?" His hands were twisting at one of Eliza's slippers.

"Of course I'm sure. What are you getting at?"

He put his eyes and the shoe down on the floor. "This cult, or these people in it—they believe that to have children is to dilute their power. The more children, or the more descendents such as grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren, the less life energy is available to them."

"And?"