THE JOURNEY INTO the swamp had not been without its consequences, and even now, many days later, Joseph could not stop replaying what had happened there. He had returned to Mrs. Lovejoy’s rooms after stealing Vivi away from the scene on Washington Street. And yet the memories of what he had seen and done down south refused to let him go. He had swum back to the crossroads, because his business there had not been finished. It would have been easier to have escaped with Moody and Vivi … to have left it all behind, in the swamp.
He swam. The alligators and cottonmouths had disappeared. His movements were silent in the water.
He reached the crossroads with no plan. What was it that he was going to do? He had the familiar sense of forward motion … of frantic energy, and drive. It was the same sense that had saved him, time and time again. And yet it was a sense that he had hoped to forget—someday.
But he would always be running. That is, until he stamped out whatever he was running from.
The crossroads were quiet. Yellow Henry’s bucket lay empty on the ground, and the bow of her boat was still pressed into the mud. How big was this piece of land? This strange island, this crossroads? How deep into the brush had she gone?
The brush was entirely motionless—saw palmetto framed by other, softer plants. There were amorphous limbs of moss-draped trees that bent toward and away from one another. Yellow Henry—and Wilcox—were somewhere deep in that brush. There was darkness in the spot where they had both disappeared.
He entered.
There was noise—a small animal scurrying away. The brush was thick and yet a rough path opened before him. The earth was dry and hard packed in some spots, wetter in others. There was no telling where the land might end.
Then, not too far away, he saw the light, and heard the voices.
“You think it is the way it is supposed to be, and it is not. You think you know, and that there is only one way. But there is not. Now you are blinded, at least for some time. I wonder … will you finally see?”
Henriette held a lantern in one hand and her pistol in the other. The pistol was aimed directly at Wilcox.
Wilcox. The demon that had chased him for years. Even after the war, Joseph knew he’d never be safe, for everything that his pursuer represented would follow him, and shame him, and deny him whatever small successes he might achieve. There was no success—only escape. And running. He had dared to ask Isabelle for the one thing she would not do. He had asked Isabelle to run away with him.
Joseph wanted to run, even now, still unobserved. He could run. There had been no logical reason for why he should have come back.
Wilcox remained silent. He sat fixed upon a stump. There was a perfect stillness about him—he could have been part of the swamp itself.
“You think that I want to kill you, eh?” Henriette continued. “But no, no, mon petit diable, that is the last thing I want to do. There is too much that I want you to see, and there is too much that you can show others.”
So—she was playing games with him. What did she have in mind? Would she lock the monster in a cage, and exhibit him to others as a magnificent demonstration of her power? Or, once the man had regained his sight, would she conjure up visions, and force him to watch things that would destroy him?
“No, no, mon petit,” she said. “My men will be here soon, and we will have some fun together.”
Joseph pressed forward. Henriette was being careless. It surprised him how careless she was being, her ignorance of the danger she was in. Did she not understand the ferocity of this animal? After everything she had seen, and heard, and done … to draw it out … to take risks …
And like a curse, his thoughts at that moment leapt out of him. Wilcox opened his eyes. There they were—the eyes. The familiar pits of blackness.
“Ah, so—” Henriette said.
But she was not fast enough—or at least it seemed that way—for the old woman did not pull the trigger.
It was wrong … there was no time.
Joseph jumped out of the brush.
“Ah!” Henriette exclaimed.
But Joseph was too late: both guns had fired their shots.
Now he was on the ground. Wrestling with Wilcox on the muddy ground. Wilcox had been reaching for his own gun when Joseph burst forth and tackled him. There was no Henriette, no Isabelle, no swamp. There was just Joseph and his hunter, struggling on the dampened earth. Twigs broke and leaves tore in this place that was so used to violence. Maybe it was a panther that screamed from somewhere—the sound was angry, almost human.
It was hard to remember—a sight one never sees again. The demise of one’s pursuer. Perhaps for good reason, there would be no memory of that. Just a body—belly up, putrid as a dead gator—with its own knife stuck into its heart.
Joseph breathed, then cried. Then he himself awakened.
“He’ll be good food for the swamp,” Henriette whispered. “You be sure to leave him there. He’s taken enough from here already.”
She was herself on the ground, propped against an old cypress knee, like a toy, sunk deep into the moss. Her clothes were drenched in blood—a pool of black seeping from the wound in her breast.
She touched the bracelet on his wrist.
“You have her now—you take her,” she said.
Take her … as if he could. She could never have been taken. She had never belonged to him. She had never belonged to anyone.
He reached for Henriette’s hand but the hand pulled back. Henriette was looking somewhere beyond him.
“Mes amis …” she said. “Nous l’emporterons—”
And with that she released a heavy breath and closed her eyes.
BACK IN BOSTON, he had gone immediately to Mrs. Lovejoy’s store, knowing that Moody would have taken Vivi there. Moody of course assumed that Vivi needed to be protected, but it was he who would need the protection. Did he know? Joseph wondered. Did Moody have the power to see it? Or was Moody’s devotion to Isabelle so strong that such thoughts had no hope of entering?
It was there, plain as day—to whom the girl belonged.
You had to look for it, and you had to have an eye—a trained eye. One that was accustomed to looking for such things. Joseph had always been able to sniff those matters out, even when the matter wasn’t obvious. But Vivi was obvious—she was entirely Isabelle, and yet she wasn’t. And so all of it made sense now … the danger she presented. The house of cards that, with the simple and gentle purity of her face, she had the power to strike down.
They would know. All of them would know.
But did Moody know? Of course he did! Why else would he have brought Isabelle’s daughter back to Boston? They had discussed it—escaping. Joseph wanted to escape. During one of those lingering moments, Joseph had put forth his vision: San Francisco … the West … a photography studio. They would take Vivi far away, where she would finally be safe from her past.
Moody had not quite responded. He had merely nodded in his mysterious way. At Yellow Henry’s, even after he had awakened, he had remained in a kind of stupor. It was hard to tell what Moody was seeing and hearing as he hatched his own plans in his head.
They had parted, in the swamp. And now the secret had come back.
“Vivi,” Joseph said, “you do understand what is happening?”
She nodded.
“You understand that Edward is now in greater danger than he has ever been before?”
Again, she moved her head.
“I tried to stop him,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “I tried to stop him from going out those doors—with the girl. But he was resolute. There was no standing in his way. I have never seen Mr. Moody so … determined.”
But Joseph had seen it, and Joseph thought he understood.
“What drove him out the door?” he asked.
“We were upstairs, in the gallery,” Mrs. Lovejoy said, “which was, we thought, perhaps the safest place for the time being. They hadn’t been here very long. I expected them to stop and rest. But Mr. Moody was pacing, and he looked out the window, and—”
Joseph waited.
“It was as if he saw something,” Mrs. Lovejoy concluded.
“Or someone,” Joseph said.
“Perhaps.”
That was it then. Moody did know. Moody had seen everything.
“You were here,” he said. “You saw what he saw?”
Vivi nodded, and in that moment, she was the very picture of her mother. All traces of anything else in her had vanished, and now, here she was again—Isabelle.
Vivi held Joseph’s gaze. But something else lingered … a sound from the depth of her enormous eyes that almost screamed, and demanded to be heard. What it said was not a word, or a group of words, or anything else like language. It was instead a cry that reached back through time, and returned to tell Joseph that she would save him.