Before the Devil Breaks You

  Jericho broke into a full grin. “More than you can imagine.”

  Memphis hoisted his lantern again and peered through its hazy glow into the earthen curve of the tunnel. “This thing looks like it goes on for a mile.”

  “I’m not up for a mile, pal. Sorry,” Sam said. “It’s been closed up for decades. For all we know, there’s no way out.”

  There was a lot Memphis wanted to say to that. “So where’s this storeroom?” he said instead.

  “This way,” Jericho said, opening up an easily overlooked door into a cold tomb of a room. “This is where I found all of Cornelius’s letters to Will.”

  He snapped the chain for the overhead bulb. Its sick yellow light fell across another mural: a dark, macabre forest full of ghosts. There in the center was the man in the hat facing a young Negro man. Memphis frowned.

  “Yeah, me, too, pal,” Sam said, coming up beside him. “It’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen—and I once saw my uncle Moishe naked at the Russian baths.”

  “Why would somebody put that here?” Memphis said. “It doesn’t look like the others. The others are hopeful. This…” He shuddered. “This is a nightmare.”

  “Hey! Come see what I found,” Jericho called.

  Sam turned to Memphis. “See, when somebody says that to me in a dirty, creepy hole of a cellar, my first inclination is to run.”

  In the corner, Jericho held up a small canvas sack. Sam and Memphis coughed as they waved away the clouds of dust released into the stale air. “How come it doesn’t bother you, Freddy?” Sam croaked out on a burst of coughing.

  “Giant’s blood,” Jericho said, getting in one more jab. “I found this tucked behind some Christmas ornaments.”

  “The professor used to decorate for Christmas? That may be the most surprising thing I’ve learned today,” Sam said, wiping his eyes.

  They peered into the canvas sack. Inside were several moldy cardboard canisters. The paper labels, freckled with black mildew spots, read EDISON GOLD MOULDED RECORDS.

  Sam wiggled off the top of a canister and pulled out what was inside. “What are these? Look like dusty, hollow candles.”

  Memphis turned one over carefully in his hand, then put it up to his eye, peering through the tube of it. “They’re wax cylinders! My father recorded some of his music on these.”

  “How did we miss this last time?” Sam said.

  “We weren’t looking for them. We were looking for letters,” Jericho reminded him. He examined the old canister. A faint stamp on the bottom, barely legible, read, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF PARANORMAL. “These could have valuable information on them.”

  “Or they could be recordings of somebody’s eighty-year-old aunt singing patriotic songs,” Sam said.

  Memphis shrugged. “Worth a listen.”

  “Okay. But if I hear a quavery soprano, I’m outta here,” Sam said.

  “Where’s the player?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Like a phonograph player—wooden box with a big megaphone coming out of it.”

  “I’ve seen it. It’s upstairs in Will’s office,” Jericho said.

  They climbed back up, restored the rug to its rightful place over the cellar door, and crept into Will’s darkened office. “Don’t worry,” Jericho said, turning on a desk lamp. “He’s giving a lecture in Connecticut today. Still trying to pay off the tax bill so they don’t close this place. Here. In the corner.”

  On a side table wedged into an alcove was something Jericho had always regarded as one of Will’s many curious, slightly useless artifacts. Now, watching Memphis thread the wax cylinder into place and turn the side crank, he understood.

  “These sure look old. Not even sure it’ll play. But here goes,” Memphis said, dropping the needle. The cylinder spun around, spilling out its tale in pops and hisses until, finally, an echoey, familiar voice came through the attached megaphone:

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson. How are you today?”

  “Sister Walker?” Sam whispered.

  Memphis nodded.

  “Fine, thank you. And yourself, Miss Walker?”

  “I’m very well, thank you. You know my colleagues, Mr. Marlowe, Miss Wasserman, and Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “Yes’m. Afternoon, Sir, Miss. Uh, there gonna be more a them shots today, Miss Walker?” Mr. Johnson asked in a deep, melodic voice. He sounded shy, polite, and a little frightened.

  “No, no. We don’t need your blood today.”

  At the mention of blood, the boys’ eyes widened.

  “What were they—” Sam started, but Jericho shushed him.

  “Could you state your name and age for me, please?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Guillaume Johnson. I’m eighteen years old.”

  “It’s him! The Diviner she mentioned,” Jericho whispered.

  “How come it’s okay when you talk but not—”

  “Shhh,” Memphis pleaded. He leaned in to the megaphone, straining to hear.

  “What is your height and weight? Oh, and please speak into the cone, if you will.”

  “I’m six foot two inches, and I weigh one hun’erd ninety pounds.”

  “Big man,” Sam said under his breath. “Big as the giant over here.”

  “I heard you’re strong enough to lift a wagon full of hay bales, Mr. Johnson,” Sister Walker’s voice prompted.

  “Yes, ma’am. Picked the whole back end up clean off the road so’s they could change out a cracked wheel. Held it a long time, too,” Guillaume Johnson answered. He sounded very proud.

  “Can you tell us a little more about your powers?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Long as I can recall, I been able to ease the passing of animals.”

  “Just animals?”

  Pause.

  “Well, uh… just people on their way out, Miss. Like Old Gertie, all ate up with consumption and pain. I helped her sleep. The good lord done the rest.”

  “Are you telling me the full truth, Mr. Johnson?”

  Pause.

  “I been sorely tempted, Miss Walker. Like Jesus in the wilderness. It’s hard working cotton. Very hard. Long days on a hungry belly. And the landlord, he… well, he wadn’t no good man, Miss. No, he wadn’t.”

  “Is that what happened, Mr. Johnson? Did you bring on that stroke?”

  “I might done. I don’t know, Miss Walker, and that is the gospel truth. I only know that after, I was sick in my guts and I got a touch’a gray in my hair.”

  “Can you go out to the chicken coop with us, Mr. Johnson? We need a demonstration of your powers. We’ll eat that chicken for dinner, so it’s a necessary death.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I could do.”

  The cylinder stopped. Memphis quickly removed it and searched through the other cylinders for more of the mysterious Mr. Guillaume Johnson, who could draw the life from things. There was only one other. Quickly, Memphis threaded it and dropped the needle. This one was quieter. Mr. Johnson’s sweet, deep voice had gone rough around the edges, as if he’d been gargling with sawdust. They leaned forward to hear. “Miss Walker, them fellas in the suits, them Shadow Men… they been making me work for ’em.”

  Pause.

  “They want me to… to do things I don’t feel right ’bout doin’.”

  “What sorts of things?”

  “I… I’d rather not say, Miss Walker.”

  “If you don’t tell me, how can I help you?”

  The cylinder was nothing but pop and hiss for a few seconds. Then: “They want me to use my powers to… to hurt people. To kill ’em. They told me them folks was our enemies, but… I’m sick all the time, Miss Walker. All the time. Just look at me, Miss Walker. Look what they done to me.”

  Footsteps. Muffled talk. A new voice.

  “Miss Walker, if you’ve finished with Mr. Johnson’s examination, we’ll take him now.”

  “Hey, I know that voice,” Sam whispered excitedly.

  “Shhh,” Jericho scolded again.

  Sister Walker’s words
crackled through the speaker. “Oh, I think Mr. Johnson should stay here. He’s… he’s ill.”

  “We’ll take good care of him, won’t we, Mr. Adams?”

  “Mr. Jefferson and I will take it from here.”

  “Wait! Mr. Johnson! Guillaume!”

  Pop. Hiss. And then silence.

  A chill passed over Memphis. “What did they do to Mr. Johnson?”

  “Who? Miss Walker or the Shadow Men?”

  “Both,” Memphis said softly.

  Sam paced in front of Will’s desk. “Those creepy fellas are the ones Evie and I saw when we broke into the old Paranormal offices. I recognize that fella Adams’s voice.”

  “What about Guillaume Johnson? You think he’s still out there somewhere?” Jericho asked. “What if we could find him, talk to him?”

  “I got the feeling this Mr. Johnson didn’t live too long. Sounds like his powers were making him really sick, and those Shadow Men didn’t care one bit. They’re bad news.”

  Some unnameable dread tugged at Memphis’s gut. There was something so familiar about this Guillaume Johnson, something in the cadence of the man’s speech, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Besides, Sam was probably right: In all likelihood, poor Guillaume Johnson, the Diviner who could draw life from the living, had taken ill and died, killed by his own gifts.

  “Memphis? You jake?” Jericho asked.

  Memphis was hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. “Yeah. I was just thinking. Death. That’s an awfully strong power. The strongest of all, I suppose.”

  Sam stopped. “You don’t get it, do you? You have the strongest power, Memphis.”

  Memphis rolled his head to one side. “Me?” I’m too scared to even show my writing to people, Memphis thought. I can’t even date my girl in the open.

  “Any fool can kill somebody. But healing people up? That’s a whole ’nother ball of wax. You can save lives, Memphis! If I were those creepy Shadow Men, frankly, I’d be looking for you first.”

  PROJECT BUFFALO

  In her hotel suite, Evie gooped a Boncilla “invigorating” skin mask onto her face and opened the day’s paper to the gossip pages.

  RUMOR HAS IT

  BY HARRIET HENDERSON

  This reporter has it on exclusive authority that radio’s true sweetheart, the saintly Sarah Snow, has been asked by none other than our brave national hero, Jake Marlowe, to appear at his eagerly awaited Future of America Exhibition next month. “I can think of no better person to represent the future of this great country than Miss Snow and her ministry. She is pure of heart and deed and a shining example of American exceptionalism.” Rumor has it… that Mr. Marlowe admires more than Miss Snow’s pure heart, and that the millionaire might be set on making Miss Snow into Mrs. Marlowe. As for the question of whether Diviners will be included in his exhibition, Mr. Marlowe remained firm that they are not jake with him. “I don’t go for chicanery and flimflam. If you want to see a magic trick, why, you can walk over to Forty-second Street and watch those sidewalk boys taking nickels from the gullible. Even Harry Houdini himself, the greatest magician of all, worked to expose the fraud of spiritualism and mediums and all that hooey. A bunch of folks calling themselves magical? Why, that’s un-American, if you ask me.”

  I did, Mr. Marlowe. Thanks for setting the record straight.

  And that’s today’s Rumor Has It!

  Evie crumpled the newspaper into a ball. Harriet Henderson was a snake, but she was a snake on Sarah’s side, and that was a problem. Radio’s true sweetheart. Harriet was gutting Evie in the papers without even showing her blade. No doubt Mr. Phillips and the Pears soap folks read that, too. She had to get in to see Luther Clayton!

  It wasn’t only about shoving Sarah off the front pages, though that would certainly be worth it. Deep down, Evie really wanted to know why Luther had tried to shoot her. It seemed too much of a coincidence the way the soldier kept colliding with her life. She remembered meeting him for the second time, how he’d grabbed her arm and cried, I hear them screaming… ! as if he desperately wanted her to understand. But what? Why her?

  If Woody couldn’t manage to get her in, she’d just have to do it herself. Evie dashed off a letter to the hospital’s warden using her special WGI letterhead, mentioning how much she hoped to also shine a light on the stellar work of the dedicated staff, and signed it, With Pos-i-tute-ly the Utmost Sincerity, Evie O’Neill, WGI’s Sweetheart Seer. She spritzed it with her perfume and spritzed the envelope, too, for good measure. Then she raced into the hall and dropped the note into the hotel’s letter chute for the next day’s pickup, frightening a bellhop. The skin mask. She’d forgotten.

  “Boo!” Evie said, and watched the young man hurry away.

  When Evie returned to her room, the telephone was ringing. She dove for it, pressing the bell-shaped receiver against her ear as she lay back on her silk pillow. “Good afternoon,” she said in her best radio voice.

  “Miss O’Neill? Call for you from Mr. I. M. Hansom,” the operator said.

  Evie couldn’t help but grin. She was grateful for the distraction of Sam just now. “You may patch Mr. Hansom through, thank you,” she said around the tightening mask.

  “Sheba! What are you doing tonight?”

  “Entertaining heads of state. Just the heads, though. Saves on having a butler for their coats.”

  “So nothing, then. Swell. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “Now, hold on a minute! As a matter of fact, I… I have a date. With a darling boy. From New Jersey,” she lied.

  “Nothing darling comes from New Jersey,” Sam said. “Listen, can you break it?”

  “That depends. What’ve you got in mind? And if you say the words ghost or Creepy Crawly Museum, I’m hanging up.”

  “How ya feel about rum runners?”

  “Those are two words I pos-i-tute-ly adore!”

  “Swell. See you at eight. Oh, and doll?”

  “Yes?”

  “Wear something you don’t mind getting wet.”

  “What does that mean? Sam? Sam!” Evie shouted into the phone, but the line had gone dead.

  Now Sam and Evie drove along the quiet nighttime roads of Long Island’s North Fork. Evie had been silent most of the way, her mood darkening as she stared out through the passenger window at the dotting of houses, lonely train stations, and occasional mansion giving way to long stretches of scrubby country watched over by a seemingly endless line of telephone poles, sentinels of human connection that only made Evie feel more alone.

  “Okay. Let’s have it. What’s eating you, Sheba?” Sam said as they bumped along, past a shadowy Burma-Shave sign. Long Island Sound peeked up behind the rise of a dune, shimmering in the newborn moonlight.

  “It’s nothing,” Evie said on a sigh.

  “That’s how I know it’s something. You never say that.”

  It was everything. If Evie could’ve unbuttoned her skin to escape her own terrible restlessness, she would have. She angled herself toward Sam. “Do you think I’m selfish?”

  Sam laughed. “Is that a trick question?”

  “Forget I said anything.” Evie’s eyes pricked with tears. She lolled her head toward the window.

  “Aww, Sheba. So you’re working for Evie. Honestly, who isn’t working for himself in this meshuga world? Some people just hide it better than others.”

  “People like Sarah Snow?”

  “So you read today’s ‘Rumor Has It.’ Okay, sure. Maybe. But honestly, name one person who isn’t selfish.”

  Evie didn’t have to think long. “Mabel.”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah. Mabel.”

  “I wish I could be more like that. Like Sarah or Mabel.”

  “Yeah? Between you and me, I don’t think you’d make it very long. The real you would come popping out like a showgirl hiding inside a plain vanilla cake. Just my two cents’ worth. Besides, you always come through for your friends in the clinch. So the Bible thumpe
r does a lot of good. You think she coulda faced down a demon like John Hobbes all by herself? You think she’d’a been able to take on those beasties chasing us through the subway tunnels?”

  Evie whirled toward Sam again. “But no one will ever know I did that, so what good is it?”

  Sam kept his eyes on the dark road ahead. “Oh, I see. It only counts if everybody knows about it. Don’t you get enough attention?”

  “You asked,” Evie said, staring out the window again.

  “Aw, Sheba. I didn’t mean anything by that. Look, I know I’m no egghead and I’m no saint. I can’t heal like Memphis or play the piano like Henry. And I sure don’t look like Freddy the Giant,” he said, exposing his own soft wound. “But I got my own kind of smarts, from the streets, and when I go after something, well, just try’n shake me off. I’m an odd fella, but I know I’m an odd fella. What I can’t figure out is why you gotta make yourself crackers trying to be somebody you can’t ever be instead of just letting yourself be the one and only Evie O’Neill.”

  Because I’m not enough, she thought. That was the terrible echo shouting up at her: Fraud, fraud, fraud. She got drunk and talked too much and danced on tables. She had a temper and a sharp tongue, and she often blurted out things she instantly regretted. Worst of all, she suspected that was who she truly was—not so much a bright young thing as a messy young thing. There were a hundred fears Evie could list. She imagined palming every one of them into a big, ugly rock and watching that rock sink to the bottom of the Sound.

  “Anyway. You can worry about new things, like being arrested by the Coast Guard, because we’re here.” Sam rolled to a stop behind an old shed. The car’s headlamps cast an eerie glow on a sardine row of cars parked along the curve of the beach. “Loyal customers,” he said.

  They stumbled toward the shore, each trying to get there first. A narrow slipper of a motorboat was stashed up on the beach. “A little help?” Sam asked, and then he and Evie were pushing the boat toward the water. “By the way,” he grunted, “what’s that thing on your head?”

  “It’s called a tam, if you must know, and it came all the way from Scotland. It’s very fashionable.”