“It was Heinrich,” she said. His name was barely a whimper. “Heinrich Kramer. If . . .” She stood up and held up her hands. She sounded stronger when she said, “If that’s the spirit attached to Tomás—or the spirit who was attached to Tomás—then we have a name for this hammer, and we can take some action.”
“We can?”
“Names matter, Alice. They mean things. That’s why God named Adam, and Adam named the animals. It’s all about establishing a hierarchy.” She turned around and went rummaging through her own books, a much smaller collection than the one that had burned at Dr. Floyd’s house. “I wish that Janice’s book on banishments wasn’t such a wreck, but there are other resources on the same subject. I’ll need to do a little reading . . .”
“David said that Tomás would need three, but he didn’t say three of what. I guess he meant three things to send the spirit away?”
She paused. “Three is a holy number. It goes all the way back to the Trinity and to the three angels’ message of Revelation.”
“So . . . three angels, maybe?” I said, thinking it unlikely. “Agatha said something about using salt to bind it, but not for long.”
“Angels—or, more likely, three kind spirits . . . but we’d need to amplify their energy. We should scare up some bells, and yes, some salt. We’ll give it everything we’ve got, including his true name, not the one he picked for himself.”
My arm hurt. The air was somehow both hot and cold around it, and I couldn’t look at it. I didn’t want to see those initials. I asked her, “Will it work? Can we send him away?”
“Let’s hope so.”
“With just . . . spirits and salt and bells? We’d need the Liberty Bell to send off a man this bad.”
“We don’t have the Liberty Bell,” she said, almost crossly. “But we have access to three other very large, very loud ones. It can’t hurt anything but our ears to try them out. I’ll call the fire department and ask them to bring over a truck. There’s a bell on the truck and a fire bell in the hotel. We have one here in Harmony Hall, too. Right near the telephone. I’ll see if Edella can bring over a big bag of salt. I’ll see if both of them can.”
“But which three spirits do we need? And how do we ask them to come and help us?”
Dolores chose another book, opened it to the end, and scanned the index columns she found there. She chose some other page near the front. “I don’t know which three; we’ll have to figure that out as we go. They’ll be close to us . . . close to one of us.” She ran her finger down the text. “If no one shows up, we’ll petition the Highest Good. If you can’t wrap your head around the idea of that, try praying to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Some people find the comparison helpful.”
“What about Spirit?”
“What do you think a Holy Ghost is? We seek the very Highest Good, to the best of our understanding—and we trust Him to honor our intent. Or Her. Or some combination of the two, or neither one. It’s impossible to guess the gender of the universe.” She was reading while she was talking, doing a half job of both. “Generally speaking, the rest of any solid summoning involves elevating yourself and brightening your own light to confront the darkness.”
“How the hell do I do that?”
“Without swearing, for starters. Begin with love,” she implored me. “Alice, reach for your love for others, for yourself, for the world at large. Listen, I want you to go and get your friend Tomás—and explain this to him, as best you’re able on short notice. I’m sure he’s resting, and I’m sure he’s in pain, but let’s get him to the fellowship hall. David kept rambling on about how Tomás would need to send the spirit away, since he’s the one who brought it here. That might mean that he’s the one who calls the appropriate good spirits, so go rouse him and bring him over. Explain this to him as best you’re able. I’ll get George up, and I’ll grab Oscar, too. Where’s Mabel?”
“She’s at the hotel, watching Tomás.”
“Good idea. I’m glad you were thinking ahead. He was planning to leave us tonight, one way or another.”
“I know.” I didn’t know. (I’d only feared. I’d refused to consider it.) I was only agreeing with her.
Now she was muttering to herself. “We’ll need everybody. All the guides, all the speakers, all the people praying.”
Perhaps she meant spirit guides, but as for speakers and praying people, that sounded like a crowd. “Will all those folks fit in here?”
“Just go!”
I almost fell over myself, running out of her office. I forgot I left the bloody bandage behind, but she could throw it away herself. I forgot to run back to Dr. Holligoss’s office for a fresh round of ointment and rags, but I needed to get to Tomás, so I let my ugly arm go naked, and I felt the air stinging on the burn with every step. But I could live with it.
• • •
WE had a name. We had the sketchy outlines of a plan.
We had a town to save.
We had ourselves to save.
I had Tomás to save. He’d asked me for help, and I was gonna deliver the hell out of it.
• • •
ALL the way to the hotel (which was hardly any way at all, to be honest) I pumped my arms and tried to ignore my burn. It was awfully itchy, but itchy was not the end of the world, I thought. Until I kicked up a little sand and then I was silly enough to scratch it, and then it hurt all over again and my skin was screaming.
But I could ignore that, too. If Tomás could stay upright and moving with a bullet in his shoulder, I could run a hundred yards from Harmony Hall to the Cassadaga Hotel.
I stopped before I made it all the way.
I made it only to the sidewalk.
From there, I could see a weird orange glow behind some windows on the third floor. Not the glow of gaslamps, and not the gleam of candles, but something bigger, slower, and hotter. I could see movement and flow, shadows and brightness.
But it wasn’t a fire. It couldn’t be. No one was making a sound. No one was screaming and calling for the trucks. Obviously, I was seeing things. Obviously, nothing was wrong. People walked back and forth on the sidewalks, and on the far side of the railroad tracks I heard music coming from Candy’s place—where people were probably drinking and playing cards in the back room.
It was a peculiar moment, a quiet moment.
A moment that no one noticed at all, except for me while I stood there, staring up at that beautiful white hotel with its pretty porches and rocking chairs, its potted tropical plants and trays for coffee or tea.
I noticed the sweet smells of night-blooming flowers—of sunflowers closed for the evening, and jasmine, and azaleas, and magnolias, all tangled in the breeze. I noticed the thin white clouds that shuffled back and forth across the sky, broken up with the big, ragged leaves of palm trees swaying back and forth.
I noticed the idle chatter coming and going behind me. It was mostly about the gunshots, and did you hear that a man was nearly murdered, right there on the street in front of the hotel? It was a Mexican man; that’s what I heard. From Mexico? Yes. Or someplace like that. Well, he didn’t die, though, did he? Not so far as I heard. Is it a bloodstain? That must be it. But he didn’t die? I don’t think so. I hope he doesn’t die. I wish I had a picture. Do you have a camera? No. Yes, but I didn’t bring it with me to Florida. Next time I will.
I noticed the current of fear that darted along the lights, electric and gas. I wanted the sun to come back. I wanted the flowers to open.
I did not want to notice a warm orange glow the color of juice spreading on the third floor, but I did. Selfishly, I thought of my trunks in the room with a big brass “14” on the door—but then I thought of Tomás, a few rooms down the hall, and Mabel, next door, and I had a moment where I wondered whether I wasn’t being completely ridiculous.
No, it was not ridiculous. That’s why I ran inside.
• • •
(DOLORES was already calling for a fire truck because we needed a bell. I told myself this, and I tried to take some comfort from it. There was a fire truck on the way, and it was bringing water and trained men with the right equipment to wage war. Not that it would ever be enough.)
• • •
MR. Rowe was at the desk. He smiled at me, the clean, professional smile of a man who does this all day, every day, but he is a kind man and I think that most of the time, he probably means it. I don’t think he smiles to lie; that’s what I’m trying to say.
“Mr. Rowe—something is wrong on the third floor!” I said in one long string as I ran past him and to the wide stairs with the brass rail along the wall. “You must sound the alarm!”
“Miss Dartle?”
“Sound the alarm!” I shouted back, for I was halfway up the first flight by then, taking the stairs two at a time.
“The fire alarm?” he asked in response, but I didn’t answer. “Dear Spirit, please, no . . .”
By the second-floor landing my knees and thighs were aching, but I kept going. Heat rises, yes? Fire must rise. I hoped fire rose, because maybe it would just keep going up and take the roof—and then stop there. Could it be that easy? No, surely not.
I kept climbing anyway—as fast as I could, as far as the middle of the stairs on the way to the third floor. That’s when the heat hit me. It smacked me in the face, and I started screaming. “Fire! Fire! Everybody out, there’s a fire!”
At that moment or a split second later, Mr. Rowe found the fire bell and set it to ringing—and ring it did. It rang like it was calling down the Second Coming, clanging its head off into high heaven. I didn’t know if anyone was on the third floor or not, but I knew it wasn’t likely to be empty; everyplace in town was full up for another couple of weeks. But then again, it was early in the evening. People might not have turned in. There was a late worship service going on down at the church pavilion, and a sale in the bookstore—which didn’t close until nine.
I didn’t hear anyone up there. No one answered my summons when I hollered, “Everybody out! Everybody, get out! Keep your heads down and get out! The hotel is on fire!”
Surely if anyone was up there, they felt the heat, and they were way ahead of me—long gone, out the door, and down the stairs at the other end of the hall. I hoped and prayed it, even as I thought that surely they would’ve sounded the alarm on the way out. If there’d been anyone. If anyone was alive and had escaped.
It was too hot there for me, too much a wall of hot wind with a billowing crown of smoke. I wasn’t Tomás, with his brave familiarity and confidence. I was only me, and I had a bad burn on my arm, and it warmed to the fire like they were reaching for each other, and I couldn’t stand the thought of it.
So I ducked back down to the second floor, where you could only just smell the smoke—but it was safe to breathe. (Smoke goes up, too. Just like heat. Just like fire, I bet.)
I pounded on the door where Mabel was hiding out, and then I pounded on the door where Tomás had damn well better be safe and sound. He didn’t immediately answer, and I thought I had a moment before things got impossibly bad, so I ran to my own room a few doors down. I practically kicked the door open, and I stood there perplexed—for a second or two, at least—unsure of what to save and what to leave. What was important enough to risk life and limb for? What could I sacrifice and leave behind?
I grabbed my purse with my money and my carpetbag with the essentials. These seemed like logical choices. Logic was in short supply, but this was the best I could do. I slung both across my chest, like a pirate loaded up with his blunderbuss, and I went back into the hall.
The first tendrils of smoke were crawling along the ceiling, but I had time. I had room. This was not life-or-death, not yet. It couldn’t be. We would only lose the hotel. We wouldn’t lose anybody in it. (Not unless there was someone on the third floor. The third floor was lost.)
“Tomás!” I screamed as I freshly pounded on the door. “Tomás!”
“Alice?” he mumbled from within.
Oh God, I’d completely forgotten: Dr. Holligoss had given him pills. “Tomás!” I pounded both fists on the door and tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. I shoved the door open, but it stopped on the chain, leaving just enough room for Felipe to poke his head out and bark like crazy.
I dropped to a crouch and let him lick my hands. “Tomás!” I shouted over his head, through the crack in the door. “Get up! The hotel is on fire! You have to get out!”
Mabel opened her door with a bang. “Alice!”
“Mabel!” I stood up straight. “The hotel is on fire!”
She was wild-eyed and fuzzy haired. She must’ve been napping, or I’ll give her credit—she accidentally fell asleep while listening to Tomás fall asleep. I’m sure it was as boring as can be. Heaven knows I might’ve nodded off myself. “We have to get out! Everyone has to get out! Help me!”
She didn’t reply; she just rallied and started running down the halls, beating on doors, because apparently the persistent clang of the hotel’s fire bell wasn’t enough to stir everybody. Not everybody had been around for the Calliope fire and Dr. Floyd’s fire both, so not everyone understood.
Mabel made them understand.
Tomás was slow to rally, despite the efforts of the bell, the pounding of my fists, and the shouts of Mabel—who was working the hall like she meant to bang it down. “I’m . . . I’m here. I need to get . . . give me a moment, por favor.”
“You don’t have a moment!”
Felipe was losing his mind, so I told him—like I expected him to understand me—“Felipe! Go back! Move out of the way!” Tomás clearly wasn’t “up and at ’em,” like my daddy always used to insist, “boots on the floor, little lady,” so it was time to quit making noise and start breaking things. To no one’s amazement more than mine, Felipe obeyed—clearing the doorway. “Here goes,” I said to myself, or to Felipe, in case he was clairvoyant, too.
(Or maybe I have some kind of animal ken, if that’s even a thing. Maybe that’s why I knew the horses—they were listening to me and talking to me. And I was listening back.)
I retreated as far as I could. It wasn’t very far. The hall was maybe ten feet wide.
I ran forward, my good arm and shoulder in the lead.
I am small, but I am stout. That’s what polite people say, instead of fat. They either say that, or they call me “curvaceous” if they want something. The fact is, I am strong. I am close to the ground, because I am not very tall. I have mass, as an old science teacher once told me.
I flung all of my mass at the door. I smashed into it at full speed, or as much speed as I could muster from a ten-foot lead. Something splintered, but it wasn’t enough. I’d have to try again.
The smoke was coming lower, lower, and lower. Down from the ceiling, to tousle the top of my head. I had to duck to keep away from it. I didn’t have time for many more charges at Tomás’s door, but I mounted another one. I backed up again, took a deep breath from the good air that was just below my chin level, and threw myself forward again.
This time the chain broke. Or the wood that the chain was screwed to—that’s what broke. The door flew open. Felipe was on the bed, guarding his master and yapping madly. Tomás was not quite awake.
But I was there. I could help.
“Felipe, you have to follow me! You have to stay with me! You understand?” He did not nod, but I had to have some faith in something, somewhere, so I had faith in that little dog. I believed with all my heart that he would stick close to his master, if not to me. If I could move Tomás, I could move Felipe.
I scooped Tomás off the bed despite his protests, and I slung one of his arms over my unburned one. I got him onto his feet. More or less. I got him walking, except for how each foot dragged behind the one before it.
> “Tomás, wake up. We have to get out.”
People were running past us down the hall now, coughing and covering their faces. We needed to join them. I looked down at the dog, who would be all right for a while. He was low enough down there on the floor that he had better air than the rest of us did.
“Stay close, little fellow,” I told him. Then to Tomás I yelled, “Wake up!” really loud, and right into his ear.
He said, “Ow. No, please don’t.”
“Then get your feet in gear, and come along!”
“Where’s . . . ,” he began, the last letter dragging out for a few seconds. “Felllll . . .”
“He’s right here. He’s with us. Come on, before the hotel comes down around our ears.”
“What did the doctor . . . ?” The last letter of that one ran long, too. “Give me . . .”
“Something for the pain, for your shoulder. You need to work through it. You need to get yourself together, Tomás. Do it for me. Do it for Felipe. We have to . . .” I dodged out of the way as a man ran past us to the stairwell. “We must elevate ourselves with love.”
“Everyone I love is gone,” he informed me with a slur. “Everyone except for you, and him.” His head lolled down toward the dog. “If this is love. I hardly know you. I hardly know . . . Felipe. It’s . . . different. But it’s . . . love . . .”
“Then it’ll do—because you’re going to need all that love, and all those dead people.”
“What . . . ?”
“Three spirits . . . we need three spirits. I’ll explain”—I coughed—“later.”
I hauled him bodily toward the stairs, Felipe on my heels—expertly navigating everyone’s ankles and toes and miraculously not getting stepped upon. Mabel had gone on ahead, ushering everyone out in advance of us and running back in to grab any stragglers—and Mr. Rowe met us near the bottom of the steps. “Is there anyone else?” he asked through a rag held over his mouth and nose.