“Her favorite,” Malcolm agreed. He didn’t name the song. Elias wouldn’t know it by name.
Elias turned onto his knees and tried to pry his fingertips between the crate and its lid.
Malcolm sat up. “What are you doing?”
Piano notes came from the crate with no discernible rhythm. One note, then a cluster of three or four, like wind chimes on a calm summer evening. Frustrated, Elias glanced around the baggage car, gaze locking onto a shadowed spot by the boarded-up window.
“Elias, leave her be,” Malcolm said, a sick twist in his gut.
Ignoring him, Elias went to the boarded window and crouchedto root in the shadows between the wall and a trio of fat black musical instrument cases that had been loaded in Buffalo. When he stood, he had a box of tenpenny nails in one hand and a clawhammer in the other. The porters who’d covered the window had left their tools behind.
Elias set the box of nails on top of a case that looked as if it contained a cello. He started for the crate, even as the scratching sound came again.
Malcolm stepped between his brother and Maggie’s crate. “That’s enough.”
“Not by half,” Elias said.
His dark eyes were fierce, but he looked sicklier than ever. The life he’d chosen had caught up with him. The hammer shook in his right hand. The darkness beneath his eyes had deepened, and as he took another step toward Malcolm, he barked a cough that made him pause and wheeze to catch his breath.
“Just take a second,” Malcolm said. “Tell me what’s going through your head. Okay, you weren’t there when it happened, but you don’t want to open the crate. There’s no coffin. Keates sewed her up into a canvas shroud. He shot her full of chemicals. She’s dead, Elias. Cold as it is in here, there’ll be a smell—”
Elias gripped the hammer, staring at the crate as if he could see right through Malcolm. “I can already smell it. But something’s in there, Mal. I saw it in your eyes—you know it’s true. There’s something in there.”
Elias started forward as if he could plow right through his brother.
Malcolm grabbed his right wrist, keeping the hammer at bay. “Stop.”
Eye to eye, Elias said, “Or what?”
“You’re kidding. Are we children again? Maggie had one last request, a final wish. She wanted me to bury her where she was born, and I intend to fulfill that request. You opening up that crate isn’t going to make you feel any better, and I don’t feel like packing her body away again after you’ve had your ghoulish little peek.”
They were nearly nose to nose. Elias exhaled, his grunt like a bull.
“Christ, your breath is rancid.”
Elias put his free hand on Malcolm’s chest and pushed him backward a few inches, stronger than his pallor would suggest.
“How are you so sure she’s dead?” Elias asked.
Malcolm couldn’t help but scoff. “Did you hear what I just said? Pax Keates pumped her with chemicals. I saw her dead. We nailed her into the crate. I know she talked about living forever, but nobody lives forever. Maggie’s dead.”
Eyes narrowed to slits, Elias spoke through his teeth. “Maggie’s a witch.”
“Elias, come on—”
“Deny it all you want—”
“You need a shrink, brother of mine.”
Elias gripped a fistful of Malcolm’s coat and shirt. “You don’t want me to open the crate because you’re not sure what I’m gonna find. You hear the noises coming from in there.”
“Nobody else does!” Malcolm snapped.
“But you do,” Elias said.
He shoved backward. Malcolm reeled, tried to keep upright, but the backs of his legs hit Maggie’s crate and he fell over it. His skull thumped on the floor of the baggage car, and pain radiated down his neck and back. Groaning, he struggled to rise to his hands and knees, and as he did, he heard the hammer begin its work.
“We got in fights with boys who called her a witch,” Elias said as he worked the hammer’s claw between crate and lid. “We defended her, but we always knew.”
