Lair of Dreams

Mabel blushed. “Oh. Oh, of course.”


“It seems that in August 1901, a Diviner, a former slave named Moses Freedman, tried to warn the president about a possible attempt on his life. But no one believed him. In fact, he was taken into custody under suspicion of being an anarchist agitator, and was questioned for months following McKinley’s assassination. They held him for nearly a year without charging him.”

“But that’s illegal!” Mabel protested. “What about habeas corpus?”

“Suspended, under the constitutional provision stating that a person can be held without charge if the public safety might require it.”

“That’s a slippery slope toward fascism,” Mabel grumbled.

“I’m sure Moses Freedman would have agreed with you.”

“What happened to him?”

“In early July 1902,” Jericho said, adding that date to the board, “he has a vision about a possible mine explosion in Johnstown, Pennsylvania—another warning that goes unheeded—”

“The Rolling Mill Mine Disaster. It was one of the worst mining disasters in American history. It killed more than one hundred men,” Mabel blurted.

Jericho raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

Mabel shrugged away the compliment. “If your parents were union organizers, you’d know these things, too. Some girls are raised on fairy tales; I was raised on mining disasters.”

“You had a very interesting childhood.” Jericho gave a little half smile, and Mabel felt it deep down.

“So,” she said, clearing her throat. “Rolling Mill?”

“Right. Rolling Mill. After that, President Roosevelt sits down with Moses Freedman and determines that he’s telling the truth. And that gives him an idea. In 1904”—again, Jericho scribbled with his chalk—“the president creates the U.S. Department of Paranormal to explore the fantastical world. He wants to find and use Diviners to work in the interest of national security. After all, if you’ve got someone whose supernatural abilities can help them see disaster or danger coming, why not use them?”

“So where does Dr. Fitzgerald fit into all of this?”

Jericho wiped his hands against his trousers, leaving chalk-dust finger streaks. “He was recruited for the U.S. Department of Paranormal. He traveled the country seeking out Diviners, testing them, hearing their stories, and registering them for the government.”

Mabel whistled. “You’re right. That really would perk up the Diviners exhibit. But won’t Dr. Fitzgerald be angry that we’re using his private letters and research from that time?”

“Then he shouldn’t have left it to us to save his museum,” Jericho said bitterly. “We’ll only use the letters about Diviners.”

“How long did you say you have to put this exhibit together?”

“Ten days.”

Mabel shook her head. “That won’t be easy.” It seemed impossible, in fact. Unless… “Would you like some help?”

Jericho’s eyes widened. “Are you volunteering?”

“Reporting for duty.”

He gave her another half smile. “That would be swell. Thanks.”

“Well, then,” Mabel said, feeling on solid ground for the first time. “Let’s get to work.”

Mabel riffled through one of the files, pulling out a photograph of five people posed in front of an overgrown crepe myrtle. “Is that… Dr. Fitzgerald?”

Jericho nodded.

“He looks so young. Oh, not that he’s old now! He just looks… not quite so worried as he usually does.”

A handsome, dark-haired man with a bold smile stood beside Will, one arm thrown across Will’s shoulder as if they were brothers.

Mabel gasped. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Jake Marlowe. He and Will were friends. Once,” Jericho said.

Mabel felt it would be impolite to press Jericho on that point, so she left it alone. Jericho hoisted a strange, dusty contraption from a crate. It was a small wooden box, roughly the size of a cracker tin. A hand crank stuck out from its right side, and in its center was a long glass tube with a pencil-thin, two-pronged filament inside. Just below the filament was a numbered meter that counted in tens from zero to eighty.

Jericho dropped the odd device onto the table. He and Mabel cocked their heads in unison. Mabel tried the rusty crank. It squeaked its displeasure. “I give up. What on earth is that?”

“Not sure yet. I’m hoping one of these letters will give us some clue. Here. You take this crate and I’ll take that one. Put aside anything that has to do with Diviners.”

For the better part of an hour, Jericho and Mabel sorted through and made stacks of what seemed promising. Plenty of it was just junk—books gone to pulp, water-damaged photographs, a shopping list or postcard with a banal inscription: The flowers are in bloom. Lovely. Jericho turned his attention toward a small cache of letters nestled deep inside his crate. Every single one was addressed to Cornelius from Will. There were none from Cornelius back to Will. Jericho pulled the first letter from its envelope.



Hopeful Harbor, New York

February 11, 1906