Rabbit's Foot: Book Two of Windmill, Indiana

By Daniel Cross

Winter, Chicago, 1920: They planned to meet at midnight. They would run off together and marry. But something went wrong.

A story of two lovers . . .

For young Nathan Devlin and Julia Tharpe, that missed meeting cleaves their relationship and sunders their lives. Nathan goes to prison, bitter, blaming Julia for lack of resolve. Julia continues with her career, equally bitter, blaming him for unfaithfulness.

Years later, Julia learns the truth of that nights failed elopement, and of the deception behind it. She sets out to find Nathan, now an escaped fugitive. Her search leads her in 1955 to the small farm town of Windmill, Indiana. There Nathan, still bitter at Julia, at his luck and at the world at large, is avenging himself on the hapless townspeople in a peculiar way: With magic.

. . . And seven stories of supernatural mischief . . .

For Nathan owns a collection of powerful objects which he now, in a final act of malice, sells to unwary townsfolk. To his seven customers, ranging from a grade-school girl to an aging charity-home couple, these ordinary-looking purchases quickly prove useful. Then things get out of hand . . .

. . . All unfold to a climax in quiet, out-of-the-way Windmill, Indiana.

Through these seven unfolding fantasy stories is woven, in flashbacks, the decades-long story of Julia and Nathans complex love affair . . . Their cruel betrayal by others . . . Their years apart . . . Their final reconciliation . . . And a secret finally revealed that will bind them once more.

Windmill, Indiana. Where bad things happen to a good town.

Books in the Windmill, Indiana series

Welcome to Windmill Rabbits Foot
Sweet Dreams Woman in the Rain

Contact the author at [e-mail]

Cover photo by Judy Butz

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532004223

Daniel Cross

Daniel Cross is the pen name of J. V. Shepherd, an author living in Indianapolis with his wife Anne. Among Daniel Cross's novels: A detective trilogy, Lou Baltimore, P. I. A. set in Indianapolis. The first book of the series, Falling Objects, appeared in 2009. The following novels, Blues for Lefty and Tea for Three, are in manuscript and are scheduled to be published in 2019 and 2020. A suspense trilogy with elements of fantasy, Windmill, Indiana. The first book, Welcome to Windmill, appeared in 2010, followed by Rabbit's Foot in 2016. The third book, Sweet Dreams, is in manuscript and is scheduled to be published in 2021. A trilogy of story-novels titled The Cooper Trilogy. The first book, Coopers Hollow, appeared in 2011. Its main story continues though a sequel, Coopers Crossing, to appear in early 2019. A third-and-final volume, Coopers Valley, is in planning. All three books offer a continuing story of mystery and revenge incorporating shorter related stories, all with a "Twilight Zone" taste. All Daniel Cross books are set in Indiana.

Book preview

Rabbit’s Foot

BOOK TWO OF WINDMILL, INDIANA

Where bad things happen to a good town.

DANIEL CROSS

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RABBIT’S FOOT

BOOK TWO OF WINDMILL, INDIANA

Copyright © 2016 J. V. Shepherd.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-0421-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0422-3 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 10/29/2016

Contents

Part 1

1. Nathan Devlin

2. Richard Tatum

3. Nathan Devlin

4. Donald Ohlsson

5. Nathan Devlin

6. Sissy Gordon

7. Nathan Devlin

8. Sheila Heller

9. Nathan Devlin

10. Earl North

11. Nathan Devlin

12. Leonard Muncy

13. Nathan Devlin

14. Gilbert Clementson

15. Nathan Devlin

16. Nathan Devlin

17. Mike Heller

18. Nathan Devlin

19. Donald Ohlsson

20. Nathan Devlin

21. Earl North

22. Nathan Devlin

23. Cleo Muncy

24. Nathan Devlin

Part 2

25. Sissy Gordon

26. Nathan Devlin

27. Lillianne Yardley

28. Nathan Devlin

29. Nathan Devlin

30. Donald Ohlsson

31. Nathan Devlin

32. Sheila Heller

33. Nathan Devlin

34. Earl North

35. Leonard Muncy

36. Nathan Devlin

37. Sissy Gordon

38. Nathan Devlin

39. Gilbert Clementson

40. Nathan Devlin

41. Nathan Devlin

42. Donald Ohlsson

43. Nathan Devlin

44. Mike Heller

45. Nathan Devlin

46. Earl North

47. Nathan Devlin

48. Cleo Muncy

49. Nathan Devlin

Part 3

50. Sissy Gordon

51. Nathan Devlin

52. Lillianne Yardley and Gilbert Clementson

53. Nathan Devlin

54. Nathan Devlin

55. Nathan Devlin

56. Donald Ohlsson

57. Nathan Devlin

58. Sheila Heller

59. Nathan Devlin

60. Sissy Gordon

61. Nathan Devlin

62. Earl North

63. Nathan Devlin

64. Earl North

65. Nathan Devlin

66. Leonard Muncy

67. Nathan Devlin

68. Lillianne Yardley and Gilbert Clementson

69. Nathan Devlin

70. A visitor

71. Nathan Devlin

Part 4

72. Donald Ohlsson

73. Nathan Devlin and a visitor

74. Mike Heller

75. Earl North

76. Nathan Devlin and a visitor

77. Cleo Muncy

78. Gilbert Clementson

79. Sissy Gordon

80. Nathan Devlin and a visitor

81. Donald Ohlsson

82. Sissy Gordon

83. Gilbert Clementson and Lillianne Yardley

84. Nathan Devlin and a visitor

85. Mike and Sheila Heller

86. Earl North

87. Sissy Gordon

88. Cleo Muncy

89. Lillianne Yardley and Gilbert Clementson

90. Nathan Devlin

91. Gilbert Clementson and Lillianne Yardley

Part 5

92. Julia Tharpe

93. Donald Ohlsson

94. Sissy Gordon

95. Julia Tharpe

96. Nathan

97. Earl North

98. Lillianne Yardley and Gilbert Clementson

99. Nathan Devlin

100. Sheila and Mike Heller

101. Julia Tharpe

102. Donald Ohlsson

103. Earl North

104. Nathan Devlin

105. Julia Tharpe

106. Julia Tharpe

Part 6

107. Lillianne Yardley and Gilbert Clementson

108. Julia Tharpe

109. Julia Tharpe Cameron

110. Earl North and Penelope

111. Julia Tharpe Cameron

112. Nathan Devlin

113. Julia Cameron

114. Nathan Devlin and Julia Cameron

115. Julia Cameron and Nathan Devlin

116. Nathan and Julia

Part 7

117. Donald

118. Earl and Penelope

119. Cleo

120. Sissy

121. Gilbert, Lillianne, Roger and Fay

122. Mike and Sheila

123. Richard

124. Nathan

125. Nathan and Ruby

Books in the Windmill, Indiana series

Where bad things happen to a good town.

Welcome to Windmill

August 1952: A mind-reading drifter comes to town with his family, a deck of cards—and a black grudge against the world. Using his quick intelligence, psychic abilities and a few cheap card tricks, he quickly pits the townspeople against each other. As the town society is slowly destroyed, only one person can stop him … if she’s willing to play his deadly game.

Rabbit’s Foot

May 1955: A sullen stranger nursing a decades-old heartbreak arrives in town with a handful of curios he sells to unwitting townsfolk. His customers gradually realize, in seven parallel stories, that the seemingly-ordinary objects they have purchased possess a darker side. As these seven supernatural tales unfold, another, larger story emerges: that of two hapless lovers’ missed rendezvous three decades before … and of one’s mission to recapture the lost opportunity that still torments them both.

Sweet Dreams

February 1958: Sweet, elderly Norma Swann sets up shop in Windmill—a tea shop, to be exact. Citizens of Windmill, by now wary of strangers, avoid her shop with its bright knickknacks and fragrant teas; but not for long. As one by one the townspeople succumb to Norma’s charms, they realize too late that her kindly manner disguises a bitter, vengeful tyrant bent on controlling others’ lives—through their dreams. As a dozen victims’ tales unfold, Norma’s own long, haunted past is revealed, and with it, her plan to purge the town of those who have displeased her. But there is one person in town whose dreams she cannot touch …

Woman in the Rain

November 1961: Two sisters, separated and lost to each other years before by a fatal fire, are by chance reunited. But as one sister seeks to discover what has traumatized her mute sibling, she gradually discovers that the accident that destroyed their family and home was not an accident but rather a deliberate, calculated crime—orchestrated by someone now very close to them. As the two sisters slowly uncover the crime of the past, they also confront the perpetrators to mete out justice … one by one.

For Anne

Principal Characters

Nathan Devlin

Julia Tharpe

Ruby McCay

Quentin Shaw

Other Characters

Cicely (Sissy) Gordon, 11, grade school pupil

Richard Tatum, 18, auto mechanic

Donald Ohlsson, 14, high school pupil

Mike Heller, 28, lumber mill employee

Sheila Heller, 25, homemaker

Cleo Muncy, 44, homemaker

Leonard Muncy, 44, feed and grain store employee

Gilbert Clementson, 83, charity home resident

Lillianne Yardley, 80, charity home resident

Earl North, 33, bank teller

Author’s Note: In this book the word gray denotes a lack of color; the word grey denotes a mood.

Part 1

1. Nathan Devlin

An alley, Chicago. Wednesday, February 4, 1920. Five minutes after midnight

She wasn’t there.

Nathan Devlin heard the crack of a gunshot and felt something flick past his ear, hard and quick.

C’mon! Quentin shouted in front of him.

The two youths ran down the dark, snow-swept alley, staggering under the weight of the sea chest they carried.

Stop! Police! Stop or I’ll shoot! Nathan heard from behind him.

The young men ran on.

She was gone.

Another bullet whizzed by.

They’re shooting at us! Nathan, 20, shouted, glancing over his shoulder. Let the chest go!

No! Quentin, also 20, shouted in reply. It’s our prize. Our plunder!

She didn’t wait for me.

Small, hard snowflakes stung Nathan’s hands and face. Yet he felt a sudden, odd warmth along the side of his neck. Freeing one hand from the chest handle he touched his neck, and felt something warm, wet and sticky. He knew it was blood.

I’m shot!

Quentin stopped, wheeled around and studied him in the faint light of the distant streetlamp. He nodded, staggering under the weight of his end of the chest. Piece of your ear is gone, that’s all. Come on!

They staggered on down the alley, slipping now and then on the icy cinders.

She left me.

A police whistle sounded from behind them, and another from somewhere ahead. Nathan glanced over his shoulder. Behind them, the flames leaping from the upstairs window shone dully through the whipping snow. Below the window, on the ground, the wooden ladder lay dark against the snow where they had cast it down only moments before.

She said she loved me.

Nathan ran on behind Quentin. The sea chest thumped painfully against his thighs with each stride. Smoke mingled with sharp snowflakes stung his nostrils. In the distance he heard a siren. The bright headlights of a police car flashed against the walls of an apartment building half a block ahead of them.

The two youths came to a dark back doorway and skidded to an awkward stop on the slick snow. From down the alley came a sharp whistle, then another shouted warning, this one on a bullhorn.

Stop! Police!

Quentin kicked the door open and the two plunged into the darkness with the chest: their trophy. It was something, after all.

She said she would wait for me. She said she would go away with me.

Nathan released the chest and collapsed on the floor, his breath ragged.

But she was gone.

Julia was gone.

2. Richard Tatum

Windmill, Indiana, population 925. Thirty-five years later: Tuesday. May 10, 1955

The young man studied the meager contents of the card table while an old man with a worn face and a nicked ear watched from a rickety chair; a cigarette hung loosely from his mouth. A few early gnats swarmed nearby; the man removed his crumpled felt hat and waved them away. From the bank bell tower two blocks away came a single peal.

What’s this here? Richard Tatum, 18, asked, pointing.

Nathan Devlin raised himself from the chair and glanced. That’s seeds. Special seeds.

Richard picked up a small glass jar and squinted at it with mismatched eyes. What’s special about them?

Nathan—just a worn-looking old man to the young customer—chuckled and spat. You’ll have to buy them to find out.

Richard put the jar down and touched each of the other six objects in turn, as if he were considering a number of complicated checker moves:

A music box.

A pen, with ink and paper.

A pocket watch.

A framed mirror.

A sheaf of music.

A pair of glasses.

The old man regarded him with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

Richard picked up the glasses and case. Funny-looking things, ain’t they? he said, holding the glasses up to the afternoon sun. He sniffed.

How so?

Kinda milky. The glass, I mean.

You wear them awhile, and they’ll clear up. That’s my guess.

Richard turned his narrow, asymmetric eyes on the old man. How can that be? He sniffed again. Did you try them on?

The man nodded.

And what did you see?

That would be spoiling the surprise.

Shoot.

Buy them. You’ll see. The old man laughed again, breaking into a cough. You’ll see, all right. You’ll see more than you ever wanted to.

I can see just fine now.

The old man shrugged.

But, Richard went on, they’re kinda comical. I might find a use for them. As a prank, don’t you know?

Don’t you know, the old man said, with a faint smile.

The young man had the vague feeling the old man was mocking him. How much?

Two dollars. The case is free.

Richard laughed. Or the case costes two dollars, and the glasses is free.

The old man laughed once, short, and nodded. Right son. He spat again.

The young man pulled out two wadded bills and handed them to the old man. The old man took the money and thrust it into his pocket. He noticed that the young man was missing his right ring finger.

Richard put the glasses on. The old man regarded him as he peered this way and that through lenses white as milk.

You sure I’ll be able to see something with these?

Oh, yes. It just takes a half an hour for them to clear.

What will I see that I can’t see without them?

More than you know, son.

Richard removed the glasses and gave the man another curious look. I think you’re pulling my leg.

The man nodded absently at the glasses in the boy’s hand. Just try them.

The young man put the glasses in the case and tucked it in his shirt pocket. If they don’t do anything, can I have my money back?

The old man pitched his cigarette into the scruffy yard and nodded. Sure.

Richard nodded, turned, and went on down the street.

But you likely won’t be back to claim it, the old man said to himself, lighting another cigarette and flicking the match onto the sidewalk nearby.

3. Nathan Devlin

Chicago. February 4, 1920. Eight minutes after midnight

Through the hastily-shut door Nathan heard a racket of police outside in the alley: whistles, shouts, sirens, horses’ hooves and the crunch of heavy shoes on cinders. Inside, in the pitch-dark basement of the abandoned apartment building, Nathan crouched with Quentin. He heard his own heart beating almost as loudly as the footsteps thumping outside.

He touched his ear and realized then just how much of it the bullet had sheared away, so quickly and cleanly that he had not even felt it at the time. The whole left lobe was gone. But the blood seemed to be dried, or perhaps frozen.

The sound of footsteps faded. The wind whistled through the crack between the door and the threshold.

The whole goddamned house is on fire! he whispered to Quentin, peering through a crack at the building they had just fled. You dropped your cigarette climbing out the window, you fool!

Shhh.

I tried to stamp it out but you wouldn’t give me time.

I said hush!

And she wasn’t there.

Then you’re better off without her.

She said she loved me.

Shhh!

After a time Nathan heard Quentin stir, moving toward the door. Quentin was quiet for a time, then he returned. I think they’re gone.

Good.

I thought for sure they’d follow our footprints, Quentin said. But we’re in luck. The wind is blowing all the snow away.

Nathan heard the pop and hiss of a match, and saw Quentin’s face, harshly lighted from below.

Let’s have a look at that ear.

Nathan turned his head to the side and watched Quentin out of the corner of his eye as the other studied his ear under the flickering flame.

"Well?

Not too bad. There’s a piece about the size of a dime gone. Off the bottom. Quentin shook the low burning match out. Can you still hear?

Yes.

Another match flared. Nathan regarded Quentin in the light.

You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Devvy.

Lucky, Nathan repeated bitterly.

You’re still alive, ain’t you? Quentin said. The match burned down. In the darkness Nathan heard him flick it aside and smelled the sharp odor of sulfur. "And we got away. And we got this." Nathan heard Quentin’s hand thump on the chest.

It’s stolen. It’s Julia’s.

A third match flared. Well, Julia left you, didn’t she? So you’re entitled.

No … I don’t think like you, Quentin.

Just stop thinking at all. Quentin glanced around. See if you can find something to light, so we can look inside this trunk. Some paper or something.

We should just leave it here, Nathan replied. It was bad enough to take it. Now we’re going to cause another fire and get ourselves arrested. For burglary. And arson. And resisting arrest. And who knows what else.

Be quiet. Quentin held the match aloft. Maybe there’s something inside it we can light to see by. Or hock.

Quentin struck another match and handed it to Nathan. Nathan watched as Quentin’s hands argued with the chest’s clasp until it came free. He lifted the lid back and peered in.

Look at this, will you, Quentin went on, with a low whistle.

4. Donald Ohlsson

Windmill, Indiana. Tuesday, May 10, 1955. Afternoon

Hey, Lover Boy!

Donald Ohlsson felt his face burn but did not turn. Instead he quickened his pace.

Hey, Romeo!

It was Gary’s voice, of course. Gary Shepherd and his little two tagalongs, Steve and Norman, heading home from school, too, half a block behind Donald. Gary the cool one. Gary the popular one. Gary the asshole.

Gary gave a singsong, lovey-dovey warble.

Donald clutched his books and stepped up his pace. He approached the old Kincaid house on the corner. Just keep going, he told himself. Don’t look back. They’ll turn off at Lindbergh Street, heading for the drugstore, as usual. Just ignore them.

He came in view of the old Kincaid house, which had long stood empty; now a stranger, a Mr. Devlin or maybe Devon, had recently taken up residence there. Just now the old fellow sat in a rusted folding chair there by the sidewalk; beside him a card table leaned crookedly. On it a half-dozen objects were arrayed atop a checkered oilcloth.

From down the street behind Donald came a snatch of a song, the tune comically improvised by Gary and his pals—the tune, but not the words. The words were not improvised. They were quite familiar to Donald.

I see the staaars in your eyes, the boys sang in raucous falsetto. I hear the seee in your voice.

Donald felt his face burn again. He was tempted to turn around and give the boys the finger, but decided—just barely—against it. That would only make matters worse. Just keep going. Damn his sister and her meddling and teasing!

He strode on, approaching the strange old man, smoking a cigarette.

From down the street came "Cathy, I love youuu," sung in an even more ridiculous manner: The boys deliberately struck a long, annoying discord on you, mimicking the corny end of a barbershop quartet’s song.

Donald whirled so fast his books flew from under his arm. Go to hell!

The trio waved and catcalled some more—"He’s a poet, and we ALL know it!" Then they turned down Lindbergh Street.

He picked up his books, his face smarting, his breath racing. He quickly looked around to see who had witnessed his moment of shame.

Only Mr. Devlin. Old, strange Mr. Devlin. The man who had just arrived a couple of days before, out of nowhere. An old man with half an ear and a sour disposition.

Donald hoisted his books and continued down the sidewalk. He gave Mr. Devlin an uneasy, embarrassed glance. Mr. Devlin nodded, puffing on a cigarette.

Donald nodded back. As he did he noticed a handmade sign tied to a tree beside the man.

YARD SALE

Unusual Items For Sale

MISCELLANEOUS TREASURES FROM A SEA CHEST

$1-$5

Donald stopped. He glanced at a handful of items displayed on the oilcloth that covered the card table.

What was that all about? the man asked

What? Donald replied, startled.

Except for nodding to Donald in passing in the customary way, the man had never uttered a word to him since he had arrived. All Donald knew was that he had shown up in town about three days before; seemed to be very old, or worn, or both; talked like someone from a big city; had settled into this little, falling-down house; sat on his old porch a lot, scowling at passers-by and smoking constantly. And one other thing: He was missing the lower piece of his left ear.

That, the man replied, removing the cigarette and leaning back on his folding wooden chair. With his cigarette he pointed in the general direction of the departing boys.

Oh, them. Donald shrugged uneasily. Nothing.

Didn’t look like ‘nothing.’

Donald didn’t reply: He didn’t like the familiar nature of the man’s questions. Instead he studied the contents of the table:

A battered pocket watch with a cracked crystal, on a leather fob.

Two yellowed sheets of music, crumbling apart, held together with a clothespin.

A curiously-shaped wall mirror with fogged glass and warped frame.

A plastic music box on which a solitary girl dancer, missing half of her right arm, stood in mid-pirouette.

A miniature glass bottle containing some sort of seeds and a tiny slip of paper.

A worn fountain pen and squat bottle of black ink, beside a roll of cream-colored stationery bound with a faded ribbon.

How much is this stuff?

Mr. Devlin pointed to the sign, again using his cigarette. He removed a dirty handkerchief from his pocket, coughed, and spat red into it. The handkerchief went back in the pocket.

Donald glanced up at the sign and read. What’s a sea chest?

It’s a trunk, son. A little trunk. About, oh, three feet long and a foot and a half high and wide.

Oh.

Sailors use them to keep their belongings in, when they’re at sea.

Donald felt a new interest in the stranger. Were you a sailor?

No.

Where’s the chest?

Mr. Devlin gestured over his shoulder. In the house. He stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one, spurring the match to fire with a claw-like brown fingernail.

How much is it?

The man shook the match out and flicked it onto the sidewalk. It’s not for sale.

The sign says ‘unusual.’ What’s so unusual about this stuff?

You know, you ask a lot of questions.

I don’t mean to.

The man laughed, coughing a little. It’s just your nature, isn’t it?

I guess.

Well, what is unusual about these things is that they all came, many years ago, from far distant, exotic lands, by steamship through storm and calm, in a turn-of-the-century sea chest, and here they have arrived … Sitting on a checkered oilcloth on a broken table in a shabby little yard, under the faded sun, in a godforsaken little place called—Say, what is this town called, son? I forgot.

Windmill. Windmill, Indiana.

The man glanced around. So where’s the windmill?

I don’t know.

But isn’t the town named after a windmill?

The boy shrugged. Maybe there was one here once.

The man gave him a funny squinted look. Shit. He picked a bit of tobacco from the tip of his tongue and flicked it. A town without its own namesake.

Donald blinked at the man’s raw language. He turned away, picked up the fountain pen and examined it.

It certainly had an antique look about it. The instrument, both cap and shaft, seemed to be made of the same stuff that his father’s pocketknife handle was made of—motherly pearl, his father called it. A tarnished silver band circled the cap of the pen near its base; a matching silver band circled the shaft just where the cap screwed on. A silver pocket clip adorned the top of the cap.

You like that, the man said.

Donald nodded.

You must like to write.

Donald unscrewed the cap. What makes you think that?

Because no teenage boy around here would give a shit about an antique fountain pen unless he was interested in writing.

The man’s obscenity made Donald blush: Even though he and his friends used the word shit among themselves, and he had heard the town men use it among themselves, he had never heard it from a stranger.

I guess. Donald studied the pen point, silver like the bands and clip. He operated the ink lever gently.

Careful, the man said. There might be some in there.

Can I try? Donald asked, indicating the ink bottle.

Sure. The man nodded at the pen. That little lever there on the side. Put the pen tip in the ink and pull that little lever up, slow.

Donald carefully unscrewed the cap on the bottle of ink, dipped the pen point into the ink, and slowly drew the lever as far as it would go. Then he let the lever down easily and drew the pen out. He removed a sheet from his school notebook, placed it on the table, and carefully wrote:

Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.

The pen made a fine, smooth stroke, thin as a thread, black as pitch. It felt good to use. He continued on the next line:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

And beneath that:

Cathy Hanshaw

Donald admired the writing. He capped the ink and pen. The pen felt good in his hand.

How much?

Instead of answering him, the man leaned forward and read, upside down, aloud, from the sheet Donald held idly in his hand.

I see you know your Julius Caesar. And Dickens. And—

Donald snatched the paper away.

And Cathy. The man leaned back and nodded. I might have known. So that was what all that taunting was about.

I said, how much is it? Donald said, blushing.

Let me guess, the man said drily, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. "You like her. And she likes—?"

Him. Donald nodded in the direction of Gary’s recent disappearance.

Ah. The age-old story. Love denied. Love deferred. Love betrayed.

Mister, how much is the pen and ink?

The whole set—pen, ink and paper—is $5. And with it comes free advice.

Can I pay you, uh, $3 today and the rest tomorrow? Promise.

The man took the three bills. What the hell. This’ll do. He shook Donald’s hand.

Donald tucked the pen carefully in his shirt pocket. He capped the ink bottle and slipped it into his hip pocket.

Don’t you want the free advice? the man asked.

Donald picked up his books. He didn’t want free advice; he just wanted to get away from this strange, bitter man. Uh, sure.

Forget Cathy. Forget love. Women are all liars, or thieves. Or both. She will break your heart. They will all break your heart.

Donald nodded uneasily.

Mark my word, the man went on in a sharper tone. Believe one of them, and you’ll end up at the end of your life, sick, broke, in a wretched place like—He waved the money about him in a general gesture of disgust— What’s the town’s name again?

Windmill.

Windmill. The man spat on the grass. As good a place as any to end up, I guess.

Donald sidled toward the sidewalk. Yes, sir. He had almost reached it when the man hailed him.

Son.

Yes, sir?

You forgot your paper. The man pointed to the roll of stationery lying on the table.

Oh, I have plenty of paper.

The man smiled, revealing, in the top side, a chipped tooth. It’s part of the set. You bought it. It might come in useful. You never know.

Sure. Donald went back and took up the roll of paper.

Oh, there’s one more thing.

I really have to get home, mister. I have chores.

The man seemed to ignore his comment. He took Donald by the sleeve with a hand that looked more like a claw and drew him down face to face. These things on this table, he said, leaning toward Donald. They’re said to have magical properties.

What do you mean?

The man leaned even closer to him. Donald drew back a little. He could see bushy gray eyebrows thick as caterpillars. The man’s teeth were stained yellow, his face was lined and pitted, and one of his eyes had a slight cloud in it, while the other was ringed with red. The smell of tobacco and sweat swarmed around him, along with an odor Donald guessed was alcohol. But what chiefly caught his attention was the missing chunk of ear. He stared at it uneasily as the man spoke.

"I mean magical properties. He let Donald’s sleeve go, sat back and laughed. You’ll find out."

Donald hurried home, the pen and ink bottle bouncing in his pockets, the roll of papers riding under his arm, and the man’s laughter ringing in his ears.

5. Nathan Devlin

Chicago. February 4, 1920. Twelve-twelve a.m.

Holding the guttering match aloft, Nathan scuttled around to peer over the raised lid.

Inside the chest lay an assortment of various objects in a high tray, each in a sort of compartment lined with what looked like silk or satin.

A pocket watch. A framed mirror. A fountain pen and ink bottle. A pair of glasses. A dancing-girl music box. A notebook. A sheaf of music. A letter opener. Small colored bottles containing powder or liquid, bearing various labels. A blue silk scarf. A small jar of what looked like seeds or grains. A necklace. A colorful, strangely-shaped feather. A large agate marble. An ornate comb. A worn silver spoon covered with strange script. A tiny doll, dressed like an Indian maiden. A postcard from somewhere. A house key. A candle …

The whole chest, and its contents, resembled a giant curio box. In spite of his recent bitter disappointment, Nathan had a sudden vivid image of himself and Quentin as two Jacks who had climbed the beanstalk only to stumble onto the Giant’s wife’s dresser, there to tumble into a box of her trinkets. Here those trinkets were, in a giant jewel box.

The match flickered; Nathan felt the flame touch his fingers.

Here’s something we can light, maybe, Quentin said, snatching a large folded paper from a corner compartment.

Nathan shook the match out.

Here. In the dark he felt Quentin’s hand find his, and thrust the box of matches into it. Light one.

We should just get the hell out of here while we can. Just because we can’t hear the police doesn’t mean they’ve left.

Light one.

Nathan struck a match. He held it up and watched Quentin unfold the sheet of paper.

Light this, Quentin said. It should burn for a little longer.

Nathan peered at it. But it has writing on it. It could be important.

You know I can’t read.

I can. Here. He handed Quentin the match and matchbook, and took the sheet of paper. Quentin lit another match. Nathan read aloud.

11th January, 1920

23 Jacobsgatan

Stockholm, Sweden

Dearest Niece Julia,

I had planned to return to America before Christmas, bringing along with me many wonderful acquisitions—Uncle Santa’s bag of toys, as it were. However, a combination of opportune business and inopportune weather (and a touch of the Angina) has persuaded me to delay my departure, and I likely will not be voyaging home until late Spring. My only regret is that I shall not be able to see my Favorite Niece (and Namesake!) until then.

Nevertheless, I have decided to send this chest on ahead of me, in the hope that it might serve as a sampler of some of the remarkable objects I have found, and as an ambassador of my fondness until I, the owner, arrive. Between-times, I will write you a more lengthy letter with particulars of my stay here.

That said, I must close this letter with a warning. Within this chest is a most unusual collection of 59 treasures, which I plan to sell to Curiosity-seekers in the States. (A list of these items, their origins, and their particular properties is enclosed in the chest.) Until my arrival, I leave them in the capable hands of you, my favorite Niece. (Please guard them against my dear Brother Adrian’s ridicule!) I encourage you to admire these objects. Gaze upon them if you like, and touch them if you must. But please under NO circumstances should you USE any of them until I arrive and discuss them with you. Innocent as they look, some are most dangerous.

Until I see you soon,

Your Fond Uncle from Afar,

Octavius.

Nathan glanced past the flame at Quentin.

Dangerous, eh? Quentin said. He peered down into the chest, and the reflection of the flame danced in his eyes. Dangerous, my ass. How dangerous can a doll be? He reached toward the Indian maiden.

Nathan stayed his hand. The note said not to use anything.

Don’t be a sap. It’s just a bunch of junk Julia’s crazy uncle sent her. Maybe we can hock some of this stuff.

Leave it alone. Just leave it all. Let’s get out of here.

Quentin fell silent. He lit another match and seemed to be studying the chest. Well, I’ll be.

What?

The chest is a foot and a half high, but the tray is only two or three inches deep. Hold this.

Again Nathan took the matchbox and match, watching as Quentin lifted the top tray and set it aside. Another tray lay below it, in the flickering shadows. More curious objects nestled there, each in its compartment.

Holy Toledo. Quentin lifted the second tray up to reveal a third. He looked at Nathan.

Just then they heard footsteps in the alley.

Quiet!

The footsteps ran past.

I tell you we’d better get out of here while we can, Nathan said. Forget this chest.

And I tell you the cops are swarming. This is the worst time to try to run.

Well, at least let’s find a place in here to hide this thing, Nathan said. It ties us to—a crime.

Not till I’ve had a look-see, Quentin said.

Nathan saw another match flare. Quentin’s hand reached for a blue bottle.

6. Sissy Gordon

Windmill, Indiana. May 10, 1955. Mid-afternoon

After school, Sissy (actually Cicely, but she hated the name) Gordon, 11, moved along the tall stack of books in the school library, her index finger skipping from volume to volume, tracing the titles. She squinted through her glasses, searching for one she hadn’t read. From the other side of the bookcase, through rows of books, she could hear faint whisperings.

She studied the book titles, all in a row.

Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Green Dress

Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Old Clock

Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Riley Mansion

Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Secret—

Suddenly the whispered words became understandable.

She believed it. Every word.

Sissy stopped, her fingertip poised on the word Room. Whispers grew louder from the other side of the tall bookcase—whispers in familiar voices.

I told you she would fall for it. Sissy recognized Becky McCoy’s voice.

She’s so stupid, Teresa Carlisle said with a giggle.

She’s not stupid, Ann Ackerman put in softly.

Then what do you call it? Becky whispered.

She’s just trusting, is all, Ann replied. Anyway, I think we were mean to her. We should have let her come.

Oh, Becky said. "Now you say that."

And what a name, Teresa said, with another giggle. Cicely. Isn’t that a town in Italy?

Sissy felt a jolt. Her hand withdrew from the book. She waited, feeling an iciness in her stomach.

I like her name, Ann said.

And don’t forget those old-fashioned glasses of hers, Teresa added with her automatic giggle.

They’re just glasses, Ann replied defensively.

I suppose you like her smell, too, Becky said acidly.

Teresa giggled. Oh, yes.

Sissy drew her breath in.

It’s not so bad, Ann said.

It’s like really long-time sweat, Teresa put in helpfully.

Sissy felt her face go hot.

I don’t think she bathes but once a month, Becky said. What do you think, Teresa?

They say her trailer doesn’t even have running water, Teresa replied.

You’re both just being mean, Ann said.

"Well, you don’t sit behind her in English, Becky said. I have to hold my breath, almost."

Shhh, Ann said. People will hear you. Come on. Let’s go.

Through the wall of books Sissy could hear feet shuffling, then the whispers died away. A moment later she saw the three girls pass around the end of the bookcase, empty-handed. She turned her face away.

She was trembling, and her eyes stung.

She waited a long time behind the walls of books until she thought the trio was gone. She left the library quickly, stealing down the hall, keeping close to the wall, and brushing past the few remaining students there.

She dashed into the restroom, checked the stalls, found them empty, and entered one. Latch the door. Take a deep breath. Bite the lip. Fight the tears.

And she did fight the tears. But in the end, they won.

Five minutes later she checked herself in the mirror: Red, puffy eyes. A drop of nasal fluid on her lip. Hair limp across her forehead.

She raised her arms and looked at her blouse there. Yes, there was a dark wet spot under each arm. But wasn’t that due to her embarrassment and anger? She sniffed herself. Yes, there was a smell. But didn’t everyone sweat? Wasn’t it normal? Wasn’t this season’s warm weather for everyone?

She washed her face in the sink and arranged her lank hair as best she could. She dried her face with a paper towel and glanced at her reflection.

I am pretty. I am smart. I am interesting.

Altogether, I am better than they are. I’m just not rich. But that doesn’t matter.

So why am I crying again?

Five minutes after that she passed through the schoolhouse doors, head down. Starting homeward to face her chores, she went over the events of the previous weekend. Now they began to make sense …

It had started simply enough the previous Friday, after English class. Coming out of the classroom with her new friend Ann Ackerman, Cicely had encountered Becky McCoy and Teresa Carlisle.

Becky was the leader of the grade-school clique, as Sissy had realized soon after arriving in Windmill four months before. Teresa was Becky’s obedient servant, and Ann seemed to be one of Becky’s followers, too.

But was she? Sissy had not been sure. Ann seemed to go along with Becky and Teresa, but at the same time seemed somehow not to be entirely with them. Last Friday, though, she had seemed to be very much with them.

Sissy and Ann had met Becky and Teresa in the hall, and Becky and Teresa had snubbed Sissy so horribly that she made an excuse to leave. As she had left, turning the corner toward the gym, she overheard the three planning a shopping trip to Indianapolis the next day, Saturday. She had paused and listened, unable to stop herself from eavesdropping.

The plan was that they would be driven to Indianapolis by Ann’s and Becky’s mothers, who had their own separate shopping to do. The girls would go to L. S. Ayres—only a block from the fabulous Monument Circle. At the store they would shop and have lunch at the famous Tea Room, just like grownups. Then the girls would walk around the Monument Circle, with its statues and pool and fountain, where they would study—and perhaps flirt with—the handsome, polished, young city boys who were known to congregate there.

It’ll be a blast, Becky’s voice had said around the corner, and the two others had agreed.

Sissy had turned and left the school, and walked home, wishing she could go with them.

That had been Friday. Now, four days later—as she cut over to the Quarry Road, kicking a pebble as she went—Sissy quickly recalled the rest of the events of that day …

She had spent Friday afternoon after school, she recalled, in the school library with Ann, who was uncharacteristically quiet about her weekend plans.

So what are you doing tomorrow? Sissy had asked nonchalantly.

Nothing much.

You want to do something? she had asked.

Like what?

I don’t know. Read some magazines at Jackson’s, maybe.

I don’t know, Ann had replied evasively. I think my folks want me around.

Oh.

The talk stalled. Sissy heard, in the background, Mrs. Bellamy, the school librarian, stamping the library books with the stamp and pad.

I think I’m supposed to go to Indianapolis. Or something, Ann added.

Neat, Sissy replied, putting extra interest in her voice. I was only there once.

Really?

Yes, when I was five. We were visiting some cousins there and I broke my collar bone playing tag. My parents took me to the hospital there.

That must have hurt, Ann said.

I don’t remember the accident. I just remember the big buildings.

There’s lots of them.

And the downtown monument. It’s even taller than the Tatums’ grain elevator.

Yes.

In the background, Sissy heard the wheels of the book cart clatter as the cart moved down the rows between the shelves. She heard a whirring noise, and glancing up saw her younger brother Jerry—a born fool—beside the big dictionary, at the world globe, spinning it faster and faster on its axle with the palm of his hand, like a basketball on a peg.

You’re lucky to go, Sissy added, hoping Ann would catch her hint.

Ann said nothing. Sissy looked up at her brother, who—encouraged by his buddies nearby—was spinning the globe faster and faster until the colored continents blurred into white.

Would you like to—? Ann began.

Suddenly the globe—along with its axle and stand—pitched off the table and tumbled to the floor with a thump and clatter. It continued to spin there, rolling around and making a racket as its axle and brass base clattered against chair legs like a crazy gyroscope. Elsewhere, the cart screeched to a halt.

Like to what? Sissy said quickly, turning to her friend and sitting forward.

Like to come with me to Indianapolis?

Oh, I would love that.

I think, maybe, Becky might come, too.

Oh.

And, maybe Teresa, too.

Oh.

I’m not sure … You know.

Sure.

Mrs. Bellamy appeared at the desk beside the dictionary and glared down at Jerry Gordon trying—to the great amusement of his buddies—to pick up the spinning, clattering globe. Then the librarian raised him by the back collar.

This is a library, Mr. Gordon, Mrs. Bellamy said. Not a basketball court.

Yes, ma’am.

Jerry’s buddies snickered at his reply.

Two points, one of his buddies whispered, and the other boys laughed. Mrs. Bellamy gave them a silencing look.

Moments later, thanks to one of his buddies, the globe was retrieved and replaced on the desk, though at a decidedly wrong angle: on its newly bent axle, the little world seemed even more aslant than before.

Sissy turned away from her brother’s mindless prank (the latest of many) and smiled at Ann. I would like that.

Ann had smiled back. Okay.

But it was not okay. Later that evening, as Sissy sought, by phone, to ascertain the time and terms of departure to Indianapolis the next morning, all she received from Ann’s home was a polite response by her parents to the effect that Ann would call her back. Later, toward nine, a second call to Ann’s house received the same reply. Toward ten—much too late to go to anyone’s house and ask directly—she placed a desperate call to Teresa, whose confused and sometime contradictory reply suggested a departure at ten o’clock the next morning, from Becky McCoy’s house.

So: Precisely at ten the next morning, Saturday, at Becky’s house, Sissy—freshly bathed and wearing her best jumper and brightest smile—had presented herself, ready to go on an outing with the other girls. At the door she had been told by Becky’s father that the two women and three girls had left an hour before.

Sissy had gone home and spent most of the day in her little bedroom in the trailer, trying to distract herself from disappointment, and not succeeding very well.

Sunday, the day after that, at Windmill Baptist Church (formerly Little Pigeon Creek Baptist Church), after the morning service, Sissy had encountered Ann at the foot of the church steps, while the girls waited for their parents to finish chatting with the Reverend Yves on the church porch some steps above.

Hi, Ann, Sissy said, her voice catching with apprehension.

Hi. Ann seemed distracted.

Teresa Carlisle came down the steps, passing by without acknowledging either.

How was Indianapolis? Sissy asked.

Fine. Ann looked away.

I guess I didn’t get there in time to go, Sissy said, adding, after a moment’s silence, or something.

I’m sorry, Ann said.

When I didn’t hear back from you, I called Teresa. She said we were leaving at ten.

Oh. Ann looked at her, askance. I didn’t know you called her.

Oh. Sissy paused, then looked askance in her turn. I guess she didn’t give you the message.

Ann shook her head. I don’t know what happened. But we were supposed to meet at nine. At Becky’s.

Oh, Sissy said simply, wondering if she might have misunderstood. Well, anyway, you had a good time?

Yes. Ann looked at her for the first time. I’m really sorry you couldn’t come. Then she drifted away.

At that moment Becky McCoy bounced down the church steps, without acknowledging Sissy, and went down the street to Teresa. The two huddled on the sidewalk, sharing some secret, with backward glances.

Sissy’s parents had then come down the steps, with her brothers, and she had gone off with them, back to her humble trailer.

So that was what had happened, she thought, glancing over her shoulder to see Becky and Teresa run to Ann, huddling with her.

Becky and Teresa talked Ann out of having me come along.

Yes, that was what had happened: Her friend Ann had betrayed her.

Now two days later, Tuesday, heading across the schoolyard and bitterly remembering the shopping-trip-that-wasn’t, Sissy suddenly imagined herself back in the school library some minutes before, between the stacks, among the whispers. And in her imagination her glance found a new book on the shelf.

Nancy Drew and the Secret of the Three Little Witches

By Sissy Gordon

Lost in bitter thought, she passed beyond the schoolyard, crossing Luett Road. She was supposed to go home, but suddenly she didn’t want to, and changed her course, heading toward the little downtown area—really not much more than two crossed streets in a cluster of shops and offices. There was no diversion in the little downtown at all, but she was in no mood to go home to her tiny trailer.

It’s true. I do live in a trailer.

What’s worse, she thought, was that people thought it didn’t even have running water. It did have running water, of course. But not enough for baths every night like the other girls had.

Snotty girls.

She had imagined, since her family moved to the edge of town four months before, that the girls ridiculed her. But she had never had proof. Until now.

So she was a farm girl; so what? The only difference between her and the other girls in school—the only main difference—was that she had just come from a farm (a failed farm, to be sure), whereas they had lived in town for some years. But they were farmers once, too. Just like her. Sweaty like her.

She approached the town’s main street, Center Street. She did not want to pass Jackson’s Drugs & Sundries. The whole bunch of them would be there—Becky’s snotty little club. She crossed the street to avoid them, planning to take a shortcut up the alley. She would go over to the creek and sit there awhile. Just to be alone.

Up ahead, on the corner, she saw a man seated beside a table in his front yard. He had only been in town a couple of days or so. He was old and ugly and mean, and looked sick, too. And something had happened to his ear … What was his name? Devon? Devlin? The kids called him Mr. Devil because he had a hateful look and said mean things to people.

She started to walk quickly past, not wanting to talk to anyone, and certainly not him.

Besides, it was starting to rain again. All day, it seemed, as she had looked out the schoolroom window, the rain had come and gone, taking turns with the sun. She usually liked the rain, but suddenly it seemed, like everything else in this town, sad and mean and crummy.

The strange man stood as if preparing to approach her. She did not turn to look at him, but saw him out of the corner of her eye as he went to a little table in the middle of the yard and picked up something she couldn’t see.

Last chance to buy, he said.

Sissy ignored him.

Magic stuff. He put whatever it was down and picked up something else, holding it too.

She walked on.

Couldn’t you use a little magic in your life, miss?

Sissy turned sharply. Are you talking to me?

The man nodded and held up something she could barely see.

What, then? she snapped, not moving from the sidewalk. He was probably going to try to get her in the house and touch her. She had heard about such men.

Come see.

Skeptically, from the sidewalk, she studied the little table beside him. Squinting she could barely make out a handful of odd objects: What looked like a funny shaped mirror, not much bigger than a serving tray. An old pocket watch on a chain. A couple of sheets of colored paper with a picture she couldn’t make out. And a little figure of a ballerina standing on a little pot; Sissy thought of a face powder container.

Forget that stuff, the strange man said, holding something up. This is for you.

What? Sissy’s curiosity began to edge out her annoyance. She didn’t move closer, but she pushed her glasses up on her nose to get the lenses closer to her eyes; it helped her see.

Seeds. Magic seeds, the fellow said.

Sissy glanced at the FOR SALE sign on the tree, then back at the man. She debated whether to just walk on without saying anything further. But the sign gave her an excuse to cut him off without seeming rude or provoking him into doing something crazy.

She pointed to the sign. Sorry, mister. I don’t have any money. It was true enough.

This is free. He looked up. I’m going to get rained out anyway, and I’m tired of sitting here. My store of worthless goods is almost gone. My sad sale is over. My weary work is done.

Before she could reply to such strange words he crossed to her and held a little glass bottle out. Here.

I don’t need any seeds, mister. I have to get home.

These seeds will make very interesting plants.

She shrugged. Then why don’t you plant them?

I have nothing to gain from it anymore. He shook his head and she saw that his left earlobe was gone. But for people with some life left to them, like you—They might come in handy.

Handy? How?

He smiled, showing yellow teeth stained with brown. It’s all in the bottle.

She hesitated, glancing up and down the street.

I don’t even know you, she said.

You don’t have to. You’ll probably never see me again, anyway. He continued to hold the bottle out. Nobody will, soon enough.

His strange comment and odd tone gave her a little shudder.

She looked at the bottle in his gnarled hand. All she could see was a long, thin glass jar, an inch through and maybe three inches long, with something black in the bottom, almost like powder, and what looked like a slip of paper, folded or rolled up. A black metal screw cap topped it off.

Where’d you get them?

He pointed to the sign. She read:

MISCELLANEOUS TREASURES FROM A SEA CHEST

She regarded the bottle. Small drops of rain began to spatter the cracked, lined palm of his hand. The seeds were nonsense, of course. Magic seeds. Did he imagine she would think she would become Jack of the beanstalk story? Did he think she was that stupid?

No, the seeds were probably just dirt. But the bottle: She ought to be able to use it for something. Keep something in. Maybe money. She could fold and roll up her $11 and put it in the jar, and hide it where Jerry and her other two meddlesome brothers couldn’t find it.

And you don’t want anything for it? she asked, squinting at him through her glasses.

No. Just do me a favor.

What?

Read that paper before you touch those seeds.

She wanted to ask why, but large drops of rain began to spangle her hair. She held out her hand. He gave her the bottle, nodded, and went back to the table. She hastened down the sidewalk, but watched him out of the corner of her eye as he snatched up the oilcloth by the four corners and hauled it, and its few contents, up the walkway and into the old house.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Sissy didn’t want to go home: It was just a trailer, after all, not a real house like the other girls had. But she had nowhere else to go, and the rain was coming bigger.

She turned and hurried on down the street, tucking the little bottle into her pocket.

Magic seeds, my foot.

7. Nathan Devlin

Chicago. February 4, 1920. Twelve-seventeen a.m.

While Quentin studied the little blue bottle in the dark, cold basement, Nathan looked for a place to hide the chest. Lighting several matches, he discovered beneath some nearby boards a round, rusted iron cover set in the dusty concrete floor.

Here, help me, he called to Quentin. The two youths moved the boards and together lifted the heavy iron cover to reveal a pit below. They lit another match and held it over the hole. Peering in, they saw a dry well about four feet across and eight or ten feet deep, crisscrossed with cobwebs.

Perfect, said Nathan. Now let’s put the trays back in the chest, lock the thing and stuff it in here. He looked at Quentin. And let’s just leave it. For good.

Quentin gave him a curious look; the light from the match made eerie sparks in his eyes. You wouldn’t be planning to cheat your old pal, would you, Devvy?

What do you mean?

You coming back here, say, tomorrow, by yourself, and packing up this stuff in a sack, and leaving town.

Nathan shook his head. I would never do that.

Quentin smiled and nodded. I know. I was just kidding you. He lit another match and handed Nathan the blue bottle. What’s this say?

Nathan studied the label. "Felicitatis aqua."

What’s that mean?

It’s Latin. ‘Water of happiness.’

What the hell is that?

Shhh. Nathan read the fine print on the label; this too was in Latin. He did his best to translate it from what he remembered from the priest at the church on the corner where he had grown up; the old fellow had paid Nathan to do chores for the church, but only if the boy also memorized Latin grammar; Nathan never knew why, but guessed that the old fellow was trying to entice him into the priesthood. In any case, the plan hadn’t worked, and Nathan had viewed the memory lessons as pointless.

Now, however, they were suddenly useful. He read the label and translated with difficulty:

"‘Whoever drinks this—this elixir of bliss—will spend the rest of his life in complete happiness … free of worries. No, wait … Free of earthly worries.’ Nathan handed the bottle back. Or something like that."

What’s bliss?

Happiness.

Quentin studied the bottle. I’ll bet it’s hooch. He pulled the stopper and sniffed it, then winked at Nathan. It’s hooch all right. Get a whiff. He held the bottle out.

Nathan sniffed. Smells like iodine, more like.

Quentin winked at him again, put the bottle to his lips and tilted it back.

No! Nathan cried. You don’t know what that is.

He watched Quentin’s Adam’s apple moved up and down once. The blue fluid vanished from the bottle. Quentin lowered the bottle and smacked his lips. Come on, bliss, he said with a grin.

Forget bliss, Nathan whispered. Let’s bury this chest before the cops find us. If they find us with it, it’s evidence. He scuttled to the chest in the dark and started putting the trays back into it. Outside, in the distance, he heard police whistles.

That’s odd, Quentin said in the dark, in a strange tone of voice.

What? Nathan turned to him.

I hear voices.

What voices?

Ours, Quentin said, and laughed.

Shit, Nathan said, turning back to the chest. Stop acting stupid and come help me.

Overhead Nathan heard the sound of feet on stairs.

They’re in the building! he called to Quentin. Come on! Help me stow this!

Maybe we could hide down there, Quentin said, indicating the cistern. With the chest. Till the police go by.

Nathan shook his head. There’s no room. He shuddered. And I don’t like closed places. Hurry!

8. Sheila Heller

Windmill. May 10, 1955. Mid-afternoon

He sounds too good to be true.

Sheila Heller laughed at her friend’s comment. She tipped the hair dryer up and leaned over.

You are just jealous, Lois.

Lois Steinmetz chuckled. I’ll bet he has some deep, dark secret in his past, she said, winking at the other women in the beauty parlor she managed, Lois’s Place.

Sheila laughed. Wouldn’t you like to know, she teased. The other women made Ooohs all together, like a church choir.

Lois laughed. She shouted over the sound of the hair dryer. Actually, he sounds like a dreamboat, Sheila. Can you find me one just like him?

More laughter, then the women took up other topics, or their magazines, while the hair dryers whirred. Lois turned to her next customer. Ready for your four o’clock, Cleo?

Cleo Muncy mounted the chair Sheila had just left.

Sheila took a seat just inside the open door of the place; the rain had begun outside, and she wasn’t ready to spoil her new hair just yet. Besides, she enjoyed the teasing company of the other women, and she liked the pleasant sound of the rain through the open door.

She picked up a copy of Life and leafed idly through it, but she was not really paying attention. She could actually feel the silly grin on her face as she thought, He is too good to be true—but he is. And he’s mine. And I am absolutely, completely, unashamedly in love with him. Three months married, and we’re still honeymooning. He treats me like a princess, and I treat him like a prince. Cook for each other. Flowers on the table. Fond little notes tucked here and there.

And the amazing, the wonderful, the spectacular things was this: He seemed to feel the same way.

I am still walking two feet off the ground.

She felt her smile broaden with happiness, and thought her face might crack from joy.

Five minutes later the rain stopped. As she bade good afternoon to her friends in the beauty shop and stepped out onto Center Street, she was still walking two feet off the ground. The air was moist from the recent light rain, and the sun had returned. Everywhere she turned her gaze, things gave off a special radiance. The ordinary trees seemed to glow. The everyday houses and stores she passed seemed bathed in light, and the sidewalk sparkled with promise.

She was homeward bound, to her new husband, her friend, her partner, her boyfriend, and her lover. All in one.

The whole world gleamed.

She crossed Center Street and walked to the intersection where it met Lindbergh Street. There on the corner her glance suddenly fell on the town’s newest—and certainly strangest—occupant. As she proceeded down the street she watched him as he carried a card table out of his house, set it on his sloped, grass-bare lawn, then pitched an oilcloth cover over the table. He began arranging a few small items on the table.

She slowed as she approached the house of the newcomer, a man she knew only, through the town grapevine, as Mr. Devlin. Her smile faded a bit as she neared his house, feeling a sudden sadness for this strange, broken, shriveled man, recently arrived from parts unknown, who was offering to the world a few knickknacks.

How sad. How poor he must be, and what