Masters of Midnight

Martha Abraham poured some more wine into Ben’s glass. They were seated at the table in her kitchen, picking over what was left of the roast chicken Martha had made for dinner. Martha refilled her own glass and took a sip before continuing.

“I meant to clear out all those old books of Wally’s,” she told Ben. “All the other garbage in that cellar, too. I guess I just forgot.”

“Of course I did,” answered Martha. “Learned most of what I know from him. He was the librarian before me.”

Martha grew quiet, and a pensive look passed over her face. She sighed. “He died,” she said finally. “Shortly after the publication of his book.”

Martha waved a hand at him. “It’s all right,” she said. “It just all seems so long ago now. Reminds me that I’m getting old.”

“Wally was interested in some very—unusual—subjects,” said Martha. “Those books of his upset a number of our patrons. I felt it would be best to remove them from the stacks.” She hesitated, looking at Ben. “I know what you’re thinking,” she continued. “A librarian should never censor her own collection. Perhaps you’re right. But Downing isn’t entirely like other places. There are some deep wounds here, and they need time to heal.”

“You mean the child killings,” Ben said carefully. He’d been trying to find a graceful way to bring up the subject of Wallace Blackwood’s book, and now that Martha had provided an opening, he took it.

Martha nodded. “There’s not a family here who wasn’t affected in some way by those events,” she explained. “If it wasn’t one of their own children who was killed, it was kin of some kind.”

“People here don’t talk much about anything,” Martha told him. “When Wally published that book, well, it reopened some doors that should have stayed shut.”

“And do you agree with him that John Rullins was the victim of some overactive imaginations, that people were looking for someone to blame the tragedy on?”

“Who can say?” Martha replied. “Was he possessed by demons? Was he practicing some kind of evil magic? I don’t believe in such things. But did he do it? Did he kill those children? The people who killed him thought so. My father thought so.”

Martha nodded. Then she stood up and went into the living room. When she returned, she was carrying an old photo album, which she placed on the table in front of Ben. Opening it to the first page, she pointed to a faded sepia photograph. It depicted a group of young boys dressed in old-fashioned baseball uniforms, some of them holding bats and gloves. Behind them a man stood, his handsome face stern yet kind as he peered out from beneath his cap. His hand was on the shoulder of a small boy standing in front of him.

“The Downing Rockets,” Martha said. “Every family in town had a boy on the team that year.” She pointed to a tall boy in the back row, his chest thrust proudly out and his hair neatly plastered against his head. “Jacob Brewer,” she said.

Martha nodded. She moved her finger to another boy. “Dylan Whitemore,” she told Ben. “Arthur Rikes. Michael Privet. George Jenkins. Leyton Settles.”

Ben recognized the names. They were the boys who had died in the summer of 1932. He looked at each of their faces as Martha pointed to them. Each one looked back at him, filled with happiness.

Martha’s finger came to rest on the man with his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My father,” she said quietly. “He was the coach. And my brother,” she added, gently brushing the face of the boy. “He was the seventh.”

“Garvey,” Ben repeated, thinking about what he’d read in Wallace Blackwood’s book. “Milton Garvey. He was the one found—”

“Hanging in a tree in our backyard,” Martha said, completing his sentence. “Yes. I was the one who discovered him. I was seven years old. I woke up in the middle of the night. I still don’t know why. I heard something, or had a nightmare. I called for my mother. When she didn’t answer, I got up to go to her room. That’s when I looked out the window and saw Milt.”

Martha stopped speaking and sat, holding her wineglass in her hands and staring down into it. Ben could only imagine what she was thinking, what memories were running through her head. He had similar memories of his own, memories he was trying very hard to keep at bay. He felt guilty about making Martha relive her past.

“He looked like he’d been crucified,” Martha said, her voice soft and distant. “His arms had been lashed to the branches. He reminded me of the statue of Christ that hung in our church. Only his eyes were gone and his belly had been ripped open. He was eight years old.”

When she looked up at Ben, her eyes were misty. “My father was a good man,” she said. “He never lifted a hand against any living creature. But he was the first one to pick up a stone and bring it down on John Rullins’s head.”

“You asked me if I think John Rullins committed those murders,” Martha said, her voice growing stronger. She paused a moment before continuing. “I don’t know. But I do know that after he was killed they stopped, and that’s good enough.”

Martha drained her glass. “I didn’t mean to get so serious,” she said. “You must think you’ve settled yourself in the midst of a horde of mad people.”

“Not at all,” Ben answered. “But I can see now why you thought it best to remove that book from the shelves.”

“Wallace would have killed me if he’d been alive,” Martha said. “He was so proud of that book. Spent most of his life writing it.”

Martha shook her head. “I don’t know, really,” she said. “I think perhaps because he knew all the boys from the library.”

“The library,” Martha explained. “There wasn’t exactly a lot of call for librarians back then. When Wally heard about the job here, he took it.”

“The library was his whole life,” Martha said. “The library and the people who came to it. It was everything to him. The murders devastated him. I think that book was his attempt at understanding them.”

“Wally was always a little obsessed with the occult,” Martha told him. “He was particularly fascinated with local superstitions and folklore. The Ozarks have a long history of supernatural occurrences. Witchcraft. Hauntings. That sort of thing. Wally read everything he could find about it.”

“He was,” Martha said. “A bit strange, but very interesting. It was impossible not to like him.”

“You mentioned one of the murdered boys was named Settles,” said Ben. “A boy named Settles came into the library a few days ago. Red-haired kid. Lots of freckles. Is that the same family?”

Martha nodded. “Steven Settles,” she said. “Leyton Settles was the brother of his great-grandfather. He was my brother’s best friend.”

“Steven seems like a nice kid,” said Ben. “I just wish I could get more of the kids to come in. Apart from Steven and Titus Durham, I haven’t seen anyone all week.”

“Titus,” Martha said, smiling. “Come in for his bee books, did he?” Ben nodded. “Is that all he ever checks out?”

“I tried to get him to branch out,” answered Martha. “Lord knows I tried. He always took the books I suggested and brought them back a few days later, unopened. Finally I gave up.”

“Special?” Martha suggested. “No, I don’t think so. He’s just quiet. Always has been, ever since he was a boy. Keeps to himself. He and Wally were always close. I know he grieved terribly when Wally died. Didn’t come into the library for months.”

Ben leaned back in his chair. “Well, I certainly appreciate the information,” he said. “And the dinner. It was amazing.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Martha. “What with Jerry gone almost seven years now, I don’t get many chances to cook for anyone. You’ll have to come again next week. I’ll make my pot roast.”

“What about you?” Martha asked as she shut the photo album and started to clear away the dishes. “Any family?”

“My mother died several years ago,” Ben said. “And my father lives in a retirement home in Florida. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

Ben thought about the question. Was what he and Trey had had together a marriage? It had certainly felt like one. They’d shared a home, a life, a love. But would Martha understand it if he told her? He thought somehow that she would. Yet telling her the truth would mean telling her all of the truth, and that was something he wasn’t ready for. Not yet.

“No,” Ben answered as he helped her clear away the empty wine glasses. “I’ve never been married.”