Read Online The Salem Witch Society by K. N. Shields - Free Book Online
Authors: K. N. Shields
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been accepting visitors. Has strict instructions that he’s not to be disturbed.”
Lean showed his badge, but the revelation that he was a police deputy did little more than earn a raised eyebrow. “In any event he’s not in at the moment. You missed him by five minutes.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“Mentioned something about the B&M.”
Within minutes Lean reachedhis destination on Commercial Street, where he paid the cab fare and headed toward the Boston & Maine depot. Ahead, by the station doors, a fair-skinned twelve-year-old boy dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt and a feathered headdress too large for him was handing out flyers to passengers entering the station.
“Mohegan Indian Medicine Show. Camp Ellis every night this week.” The boy waved a flyer toward Lean’s face. “Need a night of amusement? Free shows, trick-shooting displays, authentic dances, medicine demonstrations. Everything’s first class, all the way. Hear Chief White Eagle lecture on the historic customs of his tribe.”
This was where Grey was heading. Inside the station Lean bought a ticket for the Old Orchard Beach train. Out on the platform, the conductor announced last call. Once he saw that it was only a two-car train, Lean made no move to board. Grey would certainly spot him in such close quarters. He turned back and studied the timetables. Another train left for Old Orchard in forty-five minutes. He’d wait and follow on behind so he could observe Grey’s activities in secrecy.
8
T he late-afternoon sun filtered into the top floor of the three-story brick building on Temple Street that housed the Maine Temperance Union’s headquarters. Simon Gould, in his late forties but still powerfully built and with a soldier’s bearing, lifted a coffeepot from its silver platter. He caught sight of his own marred face, the burned tissue reflecting clearly in the vessel’s gleaming surface.
“A prostitute was killed last night,” Gould said.
“One less whore corrupting our streets,” said Colonel Ambrose Blanchard as he held out his fine white porcelain cup. “So foul a life leads to so foul an end. No doubt that the demon alcohol lured her so far from redemption.”
As Gould filledthe colonel’s cup, the curvature of the coffeepot twisted his stern visage, growing the dead, milky orb of his right eye to grotesque proportions. Gould finished pouring and placed the pot down, freeing himself from the uncomfortable sight of his old wound.
“They found her down at the Portland Company.” Gould retook his seat. “With a pitchfork through her neck.”
The colonel was silent for a moment. He frowned, and his gray, thistly eyebrows threatened to form a tangled knot above his austere face. “Was there … anything else?”
“She was laid out like a pentagram. Her right hand was missing.”
The elder man set his cup down on its saucer with a sharp clank. He cursed as the steaming coffee splashed over the side, scalding his hand. “You think it’s him?”
“He talked of some such things,” Gould said, “once or twice, when he was in one of his agitated states.”
“You told me he was gone. That he would not be a concern …”
“Perhaps he’s come home.” Gould saw the colonel glare at him in response and added, “To Portland, that is.”
“Why?” Blanchard finally asked. “The hand taken, it’s like …”
“That book of his,” said Gould.
“Maybe, but we need to know whether he had anything to do with that whore’s death.” The colonel walked to a bookcase filled with a mix of leather- and cloth-bound volumes. Several picture frames stood on the shelves as well, most showing the colonel with small groups of people, often shaking hands with various municipal or state leaders. “Find out whether he’s been here. And find that book before anyone else does.”
“The police have no idea. They’re looking for an Indian.”
“Good, but we must take an active hand in this. None of us are
Lean showed his badge, but the revelation that he was a police deputy did little more than earn a raised eyebrow. “In any event he’s not in at the moment. You missed him by five minutes.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“Mentioned something about the B&M.”
Within minutes Lean reachedhis destination on Commercial Street, where he paid the cab fare and headed toward the Boston & Maine depot. Ahead, by the station doors, a fair-skinned twelve-year-old boy dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt and a feathered headdress too large for him was handing out flyers to passengers entering the station.
“Mohegan Indian Medicine Show. Camp Ellis every night this week.” The boy waved a flyer toward Lean’s face. “Need a night of amusement? Free shows, trick-shooting displays, authentic dances, medicine demonstrations. Everything’s first class, all the way. Hear Chief White Eagle lecture on the historic customs of his tribe.”
This was where Grey was heading. Inside the station Lean bought a ticket for the Old Orchard Beach train. Out on the platform, the conductor announced last call. Once he saw that it was only a two-car train, Lean made no move to board. Grey would certainly spot him in such close quarters. He turned back and studied the timetables. Another train left for Old Orchard in forty-five minutes. He’d wait and follow on behind so he could observe Grey’s activities in secrecy.
8
T he late-afternoon sun filtered into the top floor of the three-story brick building on Temple Street that housed the Maine Temperance Union’s headquarters. Simon Gould, in his late forties but still powerfully built and with a soldier’s bearing, lifted a coffeepot from its silver platter. He caught sight of his own marred face, the burned tissue reflecting clearly in the vessel’s gleaming surface.
“A prostitute was killed last night,” Gould said.
“One less whore corrupting our streets,” said Colonel Ambrose Blanchard as he held out his fine white porcelain cup. “So foul a life leads to so foul an end. No doubt that the demon alcohol lured her so far from redemption.”
As Gould filledthe colonel’s cup, the curvature of the coffeepot twisted his stern visage, growing the dead, milky orb of his right eye to grotesque proportions. Gould finished pouring and placed the pot down, freeing himself from the uncomfortable sight of his old wound.
“They found her down at the Portland Company.” Gould retook his seat. “With a pitchfork through her neck.”
The colonel was silent for a moment. He frowned, and his gray, thistly eyebrows threatened to form a tangled knot above his austere face. “Was there … anything else?”
“She was laid out like a pentagram. Her right hand was missing.”
The elder man set his cup down on its saucer with a sharp clank. He cursed as the steaming coffee splashed over the side, scalding his hand. “You think it’s him?”
“He talked of some such things,” Gould said, “once or twice, when he was in one of his agitated states.”
“You told me he was gone. That he would not be a concern …”
“Perhaps he’s come home.” Gould saw the colonel glare at him in response and added, “To Portland, that is.”
“Why?” Blanchard finally asked. “The hand taken, it’s like …”
“That book of his,” said Gould.
“Maybe, but we need to know whether he had anything to do with that whore’s death.” The colonel walked to a bookcase filled with a mix of leather- and cloth-bound volumes. Several picture frames stood on the shelves as well, most showing the colonel with small groups of people, often shaking hands with various municipal or state leaders. “Find out whether he’s been here. And find that book before anyone else does.”
“The police have no idea. They’re looking for an Indian.”
“Good, but we must take an active hand in this. None of us are
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