“They call themselves radicals, but they’re not, really.”
“And you are, I suppose?” Mabel felt a little insulted on her parents’ behalf. “My parents have sacrificed a great deal for the good of others.”
Arthur Brown’s gaze was unyielding. “Including their daughter?”
Mabel felt the remark in her marrow. Her cheeks reddened. “That was rude.”
“Yes, it was. I’m sorry. They mean well.”
Mabel cocked her head. “But…?”
Arthur smiled in an apologetic way. “There are times when change needs a little help. There’s a group of us who want to bring about change faster. Our way. If you want to meet up with us sometime, we could use a smart girl like you.”
“I’m usually helping my parents,” Mabel said.
He nodded. “Of course. Forget I mentioned it. It doesn’t have to be a meeting. There’s a joint nearby that makes the best egg creams. You like egg creams?”
He had big brown eyes. Mabel felt a small electric thrill when she looked into them. “Doesn’t everybody?”
He reached inside his jacket and Mabel saw the outline of a gun. “Here’s my card.”
Mabel stared at the black lettering. ARTHUR BROWN.
“Is that really your name?” she asked.
He smirked. “It is now.”
Mabel shivered in the chilly air. “I should get back to my studying.”
“Pleasure, Mabel Rose.” He tipped his hat and held the window open for her before returning to the dining room and the arguing, which, Mabel knew, would go on well into the night.
From the safety of her bedroom, she watched Arthur Brown make his passionate points. He spoke with confidence for someone so young. At one point, he caught her eye and smiled, and Mabel quickly ducked out of sight. She deliberated for a moment, then opened the secret drawer inside her music box and put Arthur Brown’s card inside.
In the ramshackle apartment in the old Bennington, Miss Addie turned away from the window and fretted about in her room, trying to figure out what to do next. At last she called out to her sister. “Let me change my dress, sister.”
She emerged a few moments later in an old nightgown and an apron. “Now.”
Miss Lillian brought one of the cats from the kitchen, a tabby named Felix who was a fairly decent mouser, which was a shame. He was limp in her arms after the cream and opium. She laid him on the kitchen table, which had been covered in newspapers. Humming, Miss Addie opened a drawer in the secretary and took out a dagger. The dagger was as sharp as it was old.
“That’s a nice tune, sister. What is it?” Lillian asked.
“Something I heard on the radio. It was sung by a soprano, but I didn’t like her voice. Too reedy.”
“So often that’s the case,” Miss Lillian clucked. “Are we ready?”
“The time is now,” Miss Addie said. Miss Lillian held fast to Felix, whose small heart began to pound. He tried to squirm but was too woozy to do much.
“It’ll all be over soon, kitty,” Miss Lillian assured him. She closed her eyes and spoke in long tangles of words, old as time, as Miss Addie plunged the knife into the cat’s belly, making the necessary incision. The cat stilled. She reached into the stomach cavity and pulled out its intestines, plopping them into a bowl. Some got on her apron and she was glad she’d changed first. She stared into the bowl, frowning. Miss Lillian left the cat’s bloodied corpse and joined her.
“What is it, sister?”
“They’re coming,” Miss Addie said. “Oh, dear sister, they are coming.”
In the quiet museum, Will sat at his desk, the green glow of the banker’s lamp the only light. Earlier, he’d noticed the plain sedan parked across the street and the two men in dark suits sitting inside, watching. One of them ate nuts from a paper bag, dropping the shells out the window. Will had locked up and, whistling a carefree tune, strolled to a nearby Automat with a view of the museum for a sandwich and coffee, which he barely touched. Only when he’d seen the sedan drive away did he return to the museum, frowning at the break in the piece of cellophane he’d left across the doorjamb. He took a long, slow walk through the building, examining each room. After a careful inventory, he saw that nothing was missing. It had just been a look-around. For now.
Will craned his neck to gaze at the room’s mural, the angels and devils hanging above the hills, plains, and rivers, above the patriots, pioneers, Indians, and immigrants of the new world. Then, in the hushed green glow of the old library, he walked the stacks until he came to a large leather-bound edition of the Declaration of Independence. From inside its pages, he retrieved a worn envelope. The envelope had been stamped on the upper-right-hand corner: U.S. DEPARTMENT OF PARANORMAL, 1917. He opened the file to the first page.
Memorandum. To: William Fitzgerald, Jacob Marlowe, Rotke Wasserman, Margaret Walker