When I returned to the Bel Air House, I found Thomas sitting at the top of the stone porch stairs, smoking. Sighing quietly to myself, I went to sit next to him. I had no business in asking what he had spoken to Wesley about, just like he had no business asking where I had been.
"Clarence asked me for work." I stared into the darkness.
"What did you say?" He faced the night.
"I said I can't help him." I answered.
"Good." He said approvingly. "He's too young and impulsive. I'll find him some work in the office. When he holds a grip of himself, I'll send him to you."
"I don't think I can work with him." I said quietly as I pulled out a cigarette. "May I borrow a light?"
He handed his lighter to me.
"Haven't you heard?" I flicked the lighter. I couldn't tell whether the night's wind or my hand's shakiness made the flame swing.
He nodded. Gently but firmly, he took the unlit cigarette and the lighter from me and placed them neatly next to his feet. Holding onto my chin, he forced me to face him. Unconcerned and unbothered by my resistance, he said:
"He's in no wrong. You are not the mother of my sons, and you will never be. However, you are the closest thing to a mother they can have. You need to know your place, and they need to know theirs."
"I care for them." I said sincerely. I was brave enough to raise my voice: "All of them."
"I'm aware," he said softly as his grip loosened. I took my chance to break free, reaching down to retrieve the cigarette and the lighter. I lit it up, and he didn't stop me.
-----
In the morning, Lizzie called. Thomas had already left with Clarence. The youth had his mind made up for not speaking to me, which I chose to accept. He'd come around when he realized that being on cordial terms with me could only benefit him.
"Good morning!" Lizzie sounded chirpy.
"Good morning." I responded. "If you're calling for Thomas, he's not here."
"Manners!" She exclaimed. "I'm calling for you."
"It's not a good time." I tapped my fingers on the table. "I'm heading out."
Lizzie's tone became serious: "I'm calling about the appointment you asked me to make for you. It's been arranged."
I was silent.
"Anne." She said my name. She would only address me by name if she were worried or angry.
"Sure," I said. "I'll be there around five."
"All right," she said after a long sigh, "I'll see you then. Good day."
-----
Wesley stood by the driver's side door when I stepped out of the gate. Seeing me, he nodded:
"Good morning."
"Good morning." I got inside the car.
No other words were exchanged during the drive. There was much to be said, yet it was futile to say anything. He and I were here for business and only business. The past no longer mattered. I rolled down the window. The bumpy ride on a warm day made me nauseous. The scrambled eggs at breakfast didn't help much, nor did Lizzie's call. I thought of what Lizzie would say when she saw me later. I could already hear those words ringing in my ears. Better not to think much about it until the time had come. Over the years, I had built a habit of living by the minute, even though it probably wasn't a smart rule to follow.
"If I may say this," Wesley said politely, "I'm glad you are doing all right. Well, as all right as you can, I suppose."
He didn't sound angry. Instead, he was sincere and worried. Anger was something I could endure, but not kindness. I didn't deserve the benevolence of his heart. I never did. I leaned my head against the window, cowardly avoiding him.
"I also suppose you know he's only using you." He continued. "He wanted to be the god of this county, and you made him so."
He wasn't being accusative. He was stating a fact in his typical, blunt matter-of-fact way. Yet, the terror of guilt and shame had seized me even more than they already did.
"I know." I answered quietly. "But I'd call it a worthy agreement. It benefits both Thomas and me."
"I'm not mad at you, Anne." He stressed. "I just want you to be happy."
"I'm sorry." I lowered my eyes and offered him a long overdue apology that meant nothing. "It's too late now."
"Why are you apologizing to me? It's not me whom you owe an apology." His nostrils flared, and he finally sounded a little frustrated. After a brief pause, his straight eyebrows were no longer knotted. "What happened to you?"
I remembered liking his nose, his narrow, slightly downturned nose. In 1921, at fourteen years old, I leaned over the upstairs banister, watched as the man who oversaw the operations in the Red Lantern House walked down the hall, and thought to myself that perhaps one day, he would look at me the same way as I looked at him.
I was dreadfully sick when we arrived at the apothecary on the backstreet of Broadway. It had been getting more challenging these days. The issue must be dealt with today. Wesley seemed to notice and asked cautiously if I was all right. I chose not to answer.
The apothecary spent no effort in impressing its patrons. It was an ordinary place where the master in the art of murder resided. Giulio was the nickname of the shop owner. He was named after Giulia Tofana, his predecessor. I refused to learn his real name so the last trace of humanity left inside couldn't haunt me on sleepless nights.
"Good day, I'm here to see Giulio," I said to the older man behind the counter. "Last name is Ferguson."
Wesley quietly clicked his tongue.
"Good day, ma'am. I'm expecting you. Please, follow me," said the man with a grin. He waved at a younger man to take him over. "And this is?"
"A friend." I smiled.
He nodded dubiously. He led us through a narrow hall to a tiny back room. A desk, two chairs, and a cabinet were everything inside. He gestured to me to sit down and took out a large, leather-bound notebook. I wondered how many names were marked there. Wesley stood behind me by the door with his arms crossed.
"Usually, before I could present my clients what they ask for, I'd like to know a thing or two about their situations. We can't take any innocent lives, can we?" The grin stayed on his face. I had no right to be disgusted, but I was. He glanced at Wesley, then back at me. "So, Mrs. Ferguson, what's yours?"
"I must confess I'm not keen on discussing private matters," I said slowly while opening my purse, reaching for my revolver, "nor am I eager to ask for help."
I cocked the gun and pointed it at the older man. Surprised by my unprecedented action, he raised his hands, repeating over and over that he knew nothing.
"How can you say you don't know anything before I ask you?" I squinted and pointed the gun closer at him. "Hy – Wesley, show him the photos and the vial."
I almost called him by that name. The name that was forbidden from being ever mentioned by anyone. Silly was me. Such privilege in addressing him so was no longer mine. There was Wesley and only Wesley. I wondered if he had regretted telling me his real name, regretted that our paths had crossed all those years ago.
At first, he was just as surprised by my recklessness and bluntness. But he quickly shook it off and did what he was asked without saying a word. He laid the photos out and placed the empty vial in front of the victim. It made a thump when the glass bottom hit the table.
"What's this for?" Giulio asked panickily. "What – who are these?"
"Now, if I were you, I'd cooperate." I pressed the barrel against his forehead. "You see, I lied. We are with the Murphys. Yes, the Murphy, I think you know who I'm referring to."
My hostage became visibly terrified.
I curled my lip: "I'm aware someone in the family bought it from you. To make things easy, all you need to do is to tell me who."
He shakily looked down at the pictures, then back to me before saying firmly:
"Neither, ma'am, neither."
"Who was it?"
"If I speak of it, I'll be dead." He stared into my eyes. "And my entire family will be in trouble."
"That's sad." I reached for my knife and handed it to Wesley.
Wesley sighed. He took the knife and walked to the poor man, grabbed his hand by force, and slammed it onto the table. His pinky was at the mercy of the blade.
"The make of this knife is particularly sharp, and one cut would be enough for a finger. Is that what you want?" I said monotonously like I was reading off a poorly written script. "Then perhaps another, and another. This is not the time for any honor. You see, it won't do you good if you keep your mouth shut."
The old man trembled. He licked his cracked lips and swallowed. He looked at his hand, then up at Wesley, who stood emotionlessly, and eventually at me:
"Please, ma'am, let me check my record. The vial has a date, and it should match a name."
I nodded.
I watched him take out his circular spectacles from his vest pocket, put them on, and shakily turned the pages of that doomed evil record at a painstakingly slow pace. Finally, his withered finger came to a halt as it ran down the page, and he looked up.
"It was Mrs. Phillips, Lizzie Phillips."