The Diviners
The headache had started. Evie leaned back against the seat and watched Sixth Avenue fly by from the police car’s windows. Down a side street, several boys played stickball, blissfully unaware. She hoped they’d stay that way for a long time. In the front seat, Officer Malloy scribbled in his notebook. The scratching made her head hurt all the more. She closed her eyes. She wasn’t aware she was whistling the song she’d heard in the Temple until Malloy said, “I haven’t heard that one in a long time.”
Evie sat forward. “Do you know that song? What is it?”
“Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on,” Malloy sang. “Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells ’em off for a coupla stones. They used to sing it on my block to scare us little ones into behaving. They’d say Naughty John would come and get you if you didn’t behave.”
“Who?”
“Naughty John. John Hobbes. A grave robber, con man, and killer. He kept people’s bones in his house, an old mansion uptown.”
“Do you think he could be behind these killings?”
Malloy’s smile was patronizing. “Not likely, Miss O’Neill.”
“Why not?”
Malloy stopped writing and looked her in the eyes. “Because John Hobbes is dead, and has been for nearly half a century.”
NAUGHTY JOHN
Evie followed Will into the museum, talking quickly despite the pounding in her head. “I heard that song with Ruta Badowski’s buckle, and again today with Eugene Meriwether’s ring.”
“Didn’t I specifically ask you not to do that very thing—”
“What if there’s some sort of connection we’ve missed? What if our killer has patterned himself after this Naughty John person?”
“You’re basing your assumption upon a song—”
“A song known to be associated with a murderer!”
“That’s rather a questionable hunch to go on….”
Jericho and Sam watched the scene unfold like a tennis match gone awry.
“What is this about?” Jericho said at the same time that Sam asked Evie, “Why would you touch a dead man’s ring?”
Will and Evie ignored them and continued arguing.
“Unc, it’s the only lead we have,” Evie said.
“I do.”
“Then you may do what scholars do when they feel passionately about a subject.”
“What’s that?”
“You may visit the library,” Will said. “The New York Public should have what you need to know about this John Hobbes fellow.”
“I will do just that, then.” Evie hung her hat and scarf on the stuffed bear’s giant paw.
“What we do know is that the killer is playing by the Book of the Brethren,” Will said. “The Temple of Solomon: The Freemasons also refer to their lodges as temples, and they consider themselves descendants of King Solomon.”
“We had the right idea, but the wrong joint,” Sam said.
“What’s the next offering?” Sam asked.
Jericho turned to the next page in the Book of the Brethren. “The eighth offering, the Veneration of the Angelic Herald,” Jericho said. He immediately began naming possibilities. “Angels… a church, a priest or nun, someone named Angel or Angelica. A herald—a messenger of some sort… postman, radio announcer, reporter, musician…”
“Reporter,” Evie repeated. She rubbed her temples.
“What’s the matter?” Will asked.
“It’s just a headache.”
“A headache? When did it start?” Will asked.
“It’s nothing but a nuisance. Mother says it’s because I need cheaters—um, eyeglasses, but I’m too vain to wear them. I told her my eyesight’s just fine. Honestly, two aspirin and I’ll be right as rain.”
Jericho fetched Evie two aspirin and a glass of water.
“Unc, why are you looking at me like that?” Evie asked.
Will had been watching her, his brow furrowed. He busied himself with a pointless tidying of his desk. “Take your aspirin,” was all he said.
THE WRONG PERSON
Memphis was distracted. All day long he replayed his meeting with Theta, the excitement of their narrow escape from the police. The way she’d looked at him when it was clear they’d made it, with gratitude and a little shyness. Memphis had wanted nothing more at that moment than to sweep her up into a romantic kiss. In fact, it was thinking about that kiss that had nearly gotten him in trouble. That morning when he’d gone to Mrs. Jordan’s beauty shop to write their slips, he’d mixed up Mrs. Jordan’s regular gig with Mrs. Robinson’s washerwoman’s gig because his mind was elsewhere.