41

Massachusetts

Salem tried to cover herself with the warm recollection of that smile as she drove the brown Buick Century, wrapping the memory around herself like a sweater.

Or a bulletproof vest.

Ernest sat next to her, massaging his arm. Mercy rested in the seat directly behind him, looking even younger curled around her blanket, and Bel rode next to the girl, her back against the door, eyes and maybe gun trained on Ernest. Salem couldn’t tell from the driver’s seat. All she knew was that Bel had patted down Ernest before she let him in the car and she’d ordered everyone where to sit, all in the span of one of the tensest twenty seconds of Salem’s life.

Salem blinked against the setting sun. Her eyes felt gritty enough to make pearls if she could only close them for more than a second.

She needed to talk to stay awake. “How did you find us?”

Ernest shrugged, then winced. “Lucky guess. Figured you’d take a cab to the nearest car rental.”

Bel cursed from the backseat.

Salem asked another question. “Back at the hotel, you said the Hermitage Foundation came after our moms, and now they’re after … your sister?” She glanced in the rearview mirror. The girl appeared asleep. She imagined Bel was glaring at the back of Ernest’s skull, her eyes shooting bullets into him. Salem had seen her friend agitated before, but never to this level. They both needed sleep, food, and to get their heads on straight.

“That’s right.” Ernest fidgeted. Salem first thought his height made it difficult to get comfortable, but then she realized he was trying to check on his sister in the mirror.

Salem craned her neck so she could glance deeper into the backseat. “I think she’s sleeping.”

“Yeah,” Bel said from the rear. “I can hear her breathing. And now you should tell us anything you left out back at the Hawthorne, and quickly. We have somewhere we have to be.”

Salem knew better than to say where they needed to be—Bel would be furious if she spilled their destination to Ernest. That was unfortunate, because all Salem had was a vague idea that Amherst lay about two hours away on the western side of the state, combined with an awareness that the sun set in the west. She had no idea which roads to take and was following the fading light.

“Can I cover her with my jacket first?” Ernest looked pained.

“Of course,” Bel replied. “You’re not hostages.”

He was too tall to remove his parka without bumping Salem two separate times. Other than the chicken-soup smell announcing he was past due for a shower, Salem didn’t mind. He unbuckled, leaned over the backseat, and tucked his jacket around Mercy. She didn’t stir. He returned to his spot and rebuckled.

“You’re not going to like this,” he began, “but I don’t know much more than I told you at the hotel. The Hermitage Foundation was formed by Andrew Jackson back in the early 1800s. He invested his fortune into it. I think he envisioned a secret group of men who would get rich and stay rich, sort of orchestrating the world behind the scenes. Part of their mission entailed keeping women in their place.”

“Why?” Salem asked.

Bel echoed her. “Yeah, weren’t religions and governments doing just fine at that?”

“That’s just it.” Ernest swiveled to face her. His voice was sincere, begging Bel not to make fun of him. “The original founders were the heads of everything at the time, including churches, businesses, and the government. They wanted to keep it that way. They’ve done a pretty good job too.”

“I thought I heard something in the news sometime about the Barnaby Brothers being active in the Hermitage.” In response to Bel’s questioning stare in the mirror, Salem explained, “Those two rich guys taking down unions all over the country.”

Ernest nodded. “One of them, Carl Barnaby, is the Hermitage’s CEO. His brother, Cassius, is on the board. They oversee the American arm of the Hermitage. Their mission is to help the rich get richer, starting with themselves. It’s the original good old boys club.”

Bel glanced out the window, taking her eyes off of Ernest for the first time. “Let me guess: women’s inequality is a conspiracy, created and funded by the Hermitage Foundation.”

He misread her sarcasm as buy-in. “Exactly! Women are the majority. If they united, they could take their power back. The Hermitage knows that. Cutting female genitals and sewing what’s left mostly closed, sanctioned war-time rape, acid attacks, how impossible it is in some places to get an education—or even birth control—if you’re female, unfair pay, erasing women from the history books … they’re all movements funded by the Hermitage Foundation. They’re so good at it that they have people thinking all of that is their own idea. They even have women speaking out against their own interests. And your mothers”—he turned his attention to Salem—“were instrumental in keeping the Hermitage in check, even though it’s always been an uphill battle.” He coughed. “You’re going to want to get on Highway 2.”

Bel spun her eyes back into the car. “What?”

The shadow of a smile appeared on Ernest’s lips. “I peeked at the note back at the hotel, when you had me in that lock hold? I saw Emily Dickinson’s signature. I figure you’re going to Amherst, right?”

Salem sneaked a peek at Ernest. He was so tall he had to bend his shaggy head forward to fit in the car. He otherwise sat as straight as he could, long fingers spread out on his knees, face too young to grow a proper beard but a couple weeks past a shave nonetheless. He’d proven himself to be resourceful and smart, and he clearly loved his little sister. He was growing on Salem. “I think we should trust him, Bel.”

A flash of light appeared in the backseat as Bel fired up her phone. “The directions he gave look good.”

Ernest nodded happily. Traffic was heavy enough to keep the sedan at 40 miles per hour, gray cars full of gray people on gray roads streaming past like groupers against a current. The only color in the severe fall landscape was the sun, which had nearly dipped below the horizon, a vivid corona of blood orange marking its passage.

Bel’s voice cut into the silence. She was still researching on her phone. “The only Minneapolis homicide stories mention Mrs. Gladia.” Bel aimed her words at Ernest. “No mention of her dog, no mention of our mothers disappearing, both facts that you knew.”

“And my nickname,” Salem said.

Bel dropped her phone and rubbed her face with both hands. “Okay. The kidnapping of two women, one of them a local celebrity, should be headline news. Goddammit.”

Salem’s eyes grew hot. If she started crying, she wasn’t ever going to stop, so she swallowed the cresting wave of fear and loss. No one was looking for Grace and her mom—no one but them.

“Your mom was right, Salem,” Bel said softly. “We have to beware. We’re on the run, officially, until we figure this out.” She put her hands on the front seat and pulled herself forward. “Ernest, I don’t trust you, but it’s not personal. It’s common sense.”

He bobbed his head. “Understood.” His voice dropped. “Your moms knew the Hermitage was coming for them. They set something in motion before they were … taken care of.” He pointed to Salem’s pocket. “Emily Dickinson’s note must tell us what it is.”

Salem’s hand flew to the cloth of her jacket. She pushed lightly and heard a crinkle.

Dickinson’s letter. Safe and sound.

Relieved, she let out her breath. “Where are you from, Ernest?”

His shoulders slumped. “Everywhere. Me and Mercy have been in Massachusetts for the last few months.”

“How’d you get caught up in all this?” Bel asked from the backseat.

Ernest glanced at the shadows racing outside his window. “We were living in Georgia. My mom died giving birth to Mercy. The Underground found us soon after. They give us places to bunk up and down the coast, help me with Mercy when I run errands for them. We can’t ever stay in one place too long. I don’t want the Hermitage to find her.”

The jacket in the backseat moved. “I’m hungry,” Mercy said.

Salem covered her mouth with her hand. How much had the girl heard? “You know what, honey? I’m hungry too. I’ll take the next exit and—”

A deer leapt out of the ditch, scaring the words from her mouth, hurtling toward the hood of their car.