“You let me worry about Isaiah.” She coughed long and hard and popped a lozenge into her mouth. Then she placed Memphis’s coat around his shoulders like a mother would do, and Memphis felt a cry ballooning at the back of his throat. “Go on home now, Memphis. Get some rest.”
Sister Walker stood at the door watching Memphis trudge toward home. Her cough was bad—too little sleep. A swig of medicine and some hot tea would help for now. As for what she’d just heard, she had no remedy—only a deep sense of dread that some nameless horror was about to sweep its dark wing across the land, and that they might all be lost in its shadow.
FALSE IDOLS
The car screeched to a halt in front of the Globe Theatre, and Evie leaped from it before the engine had quit its sputterings. She tried the front doors. “Locked!” she shouted.
“Stage door!” Jericho said. He took off for the alley with Evie and Sam in hot pursuit. The stage door was ajar. The handle was partially melted, the door frame blackened.
Evie’s legs felt in danger of buckling as she crept along a dim backstage hallway past dressing rooms whose mirrors flashed in the dark.
“Jericho?” she whispered urgently. “Sam?”
“Here,” Sam said, popping out of a dressing room and making her jump.
Light glowed from the stage, and as Evie drew closer, she could see that the spot was on full. She saw the lighted staircase from the Ba’al worship number, and her heartbeat quickened.
“Theta?” she said. There was no response.
Evie walked out on the stage. She put up a hand to block the blinding spotlight and followed it to the altar at the top of the staircase. The spot threw thousands of sparkles as it reflected off the beaded costume of the dead girl lying there.
“Sam! Jericho!” Evie shouted and, despite her fear, bounded up the stairs. At the sight of the body, she put out a hand to keep herself from tumbling back down.
“Is it her?” Sam shouted, racing up.
“No,” Evie said, her voice small. The girl was a blond.
“Her skin…” Sam said. He put a hand on Evie’s shoulder and she jumped.
“It’s gone,” Jericho finished.
The doors flew open, and shouts of “Stay where you are!” and “Don’t move!” reached them as a wave of police officers, guns drawn, streamed down the aisles. Evie could see their handcuffs gleaming in the dusky theater. “You’re under arrest,” an officer said.
Evie offered her hands and allowed herself to be taken to the police station without protest.
Detective Malloy was furious. As Evie sat with Jericho and Sam on the chairs outside his office, she could hear him lighting into Uncle Will. “… contaminating a crime scene… breaking and entering… thought I told you to stay out of this…”
Will caught her eye only once through the half-open office door, and it was enough to make Evie snap her eyes forward again.
“I’ll tell him it was my idea,” Sam said.
“Swell. I’ll tell him it was your idea, too,” Evie said.
The officers dragged a protesting T. S. Woodhouse into the precinct and dumped him unceremoniously into a chair beside Evie and the others.
“Hey! I got rights, you know,” Woodhouse yelled.
“Yeah?” the officer snapped back. “Not for long. Hey, Sarge—caught this one at the theater, sneaking pictures of the body with a camera he had strapped to his leg. Don’t that beat all?”
“That camera is property of the Daily News, pal!” T.S. yelled. Then, noticing Evie, he said, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite Sheba.” Woodhouse sneered at her. “That was quite a little scavenger hunt you sent me on the other night. Ars Mysterium, huh? More like Betty Bunk.”
“You got exactly what you deserved, Mr. Woodhouse.”
T. S. Woodhouse’s eyes flashed. “Yeah? What do you think your uncle would say if he found out you were the one feeding me information on the case?”
“That was you?” Sam said, eyebrows high.
“And how,” Woodhouse said, without taking his eyes off Evie’s.
“Are you blackmailing me, Mr. Woodhouse?”
He shrugged. “I might be.”
“Fine. You want to know who the Pentacle Killer is? It’s Naughty John Hobbes himself, come back from the dead to finish the ritual he started in 1875. And when he’s finished, he’s bringing hell on earth.”
“Evie,” Jericho cautioned.
Evie stared down T. S. Woodhouse. He responded with a cynical laugh. “You’re a hot sketch, Sheba. I’ll give you that. But I wouldn’t look for any more favorable articles on the museum—or you, if you catch my drift.”
Will stepped out into the hallway. “No one is to say a word until we get home.”
“So long, Sheba,” T. S. Woodhouse said. “It’s been good knowing you.”
Henry was asleep, curled toward the wall. Theta slipped in behind him, matching the arch of him. She draped her arm across his side. He stirred, lacing his fingers in hers. Theta began to cry, and Henry turned to her.
“Theta? What’s the matter?”
“I was at the theater. I-I heard noises. Somebody was there, Hen!”
Henry fought off his sleepiness and tried to make sense of what Theta was saying. “Who was there? What are you talking about, darlin’?”
“I went back and Wally was there with the cops. He looked like he’d been punched. I pretended like I was out on the town and just walking by, and I asked him what happened.”
Theta buried her face against Henry’s side. Henry could feel her trembling.
“It was Daisy,” she finally managed. “The Pentacle Killer got Daisy. She must’ve come back for her earrings and… It could’ve been me, Henry.”
Theta started to cry again. Henry pulled her close. The thought of losing Theta terrified him. “Are you hurt?”
“No. Oh, Hen, I heard this awful whistling coming from everywhere. I was running, but I couldn’t get the doors open, and…” Her voice softened to nearly a whisper. “It started to happen again, Hen. Just like Kansas.”
Henry knew about what had happened in Kansas. He also knew it hadn’t happened since.
“Well, you’re safe now. I got you.”
“What’s happening, Hen?”
“I don’t know, cher.”
Henry put his arms around Theta; she rested her seal-black head against his chest, and they stayed that way till dawn.
THE WILD MAN OF BORNEO
The morning’s papers had a field day with the murder of Daisy Goodwin. FINAL BOW! MURDER AT THE FOLLIES! PENTACLE PERFORMANCE! Evie was reading the Daily News’s front-page story when Sam ran in waving a piece of official-looking paper overhead. “I’ve got news!” He trundled quickly up the spiral iron staircase to where Evie stood in the library’s tall stacks and preened like a cat who knows there’s a dish of cream waiting.
“Okay. I’ll bite. What the devil are you so smug about?”
“I found the tax records for Knowles’ End.” He swung his legs over the railing, hopped onto the rolling ladder, and pushed off.
“When did you become wise in the ways of research?”
“Well, I did rely on my charms,” Sam admitted. “You’d be surprised how helpful the girl in the records office can be.”
Evie took the stairs two at a time to the first floor and trotted alongside Sam as he rode the library ladder. “Well? Did you find anything interesting?”
Sam gave the ladder another push.
“And how. For the past thirty years, the taxes have been paid by a Mrs. Eleanor Joan Ambrosio.” He paused dramatically.
Evie rolled her eyes. “And?”
“That name didn’t mean anything to me. So I did a little digging. Ambrosio is a married name. Blodgett is her maiden name. Ring any bells?”
“No.” Evie reached for the ladder and Sam pushed off again, leaving her grasping at the air. He was really enjoying this, she could tell.
“Mary White married a fella named Blodgett. Eleanor was their daughter.”
Evie kept pace with the ladder. “So her daughter kept up the taxes on Knowles’ End? Why?”
“That’s exactly what I said. See? We think alike.”
“Will you come down from there, please? You’re making me dizzy.” Evie stopped the ladder abruptly and Sam leaped down.
“Aw, doll. You say the sweetest things.”