Page 137 of The Reformatory

“I saw him not twenty minutes ago,” Crutcher said. “Out by the… shed.” In that instant’s pause, Haddock could have sworn the man’s skin was turning gray. “I grabbed the broom after I heard the fire alarm, and that’s when I saw Stephens. I told him to stay away from the kitchen and he said he’d go to the dormitory to wash off the grease.”

“What grease?” Boone said.

Crutcher hesitated. “On his face. Maybe it was dirt. He was filthy from looking for haints. I was rushing to the fire, so I didn’t get a good look.”

Crutcher was lying: Haddock could practically smell his lie, but it was apparent in his uncomfortable fidgeting. “What the hell was Stephens doing in my shed?” Haddock said. The shed would no doubt be a good place to hunt for ghosts, but Crutcher had no business nosing around. Crutcher, unlike Boone, had never been invited with him into the shed. He brought only men he trusted most, as a treat. Could Crutcher had taken Stephens back there for a quick ride himself? That would be impressive. Maybe he’d misjudged Percy Crutcher.

“No, sir,” Crutcher said. “He was just outside. Twenty or so minutes ago, as I said.”

“Find him,” Haddock said. “Bring Robert Stephens to me right now.”

Marian Hamilton was having a crisis of faith.

Not faith in God: if the war and Walter’s murder couldn’t shake that, nothing could. But her own judgment was suddenly suspect, making her rethink every decision she had made in the past six months, starting with coming back to Gracetown instead of moving to Los Angeles to play in a studio band, an offer straight from Louis Armstrong. And buying a house in a community where so few people could afford to buy it from her, or even rent it, if she wanted to leave. And taking in a fugitive girl.

No, that was no mistake. She was proud to shelter Gloria Stephens.

Her biggest mistake—perhaps her only mistake—had been to start volunteering at the Gracetown School for Boys. She and Percy had heard stories of the horrors at the Reformatory since they were children, and after she’d seen the troops’ powerful reaction to music during the war, she’d thought music might help heal these boys too. But their horrors were smothering her now as well, interrupting her sleep, making her wonder if she recognized her own face in her mirror.

She was changing—she was sure of it. If she were the same person she’d been when she first came to work at the Reformatory, she would have quit on the spot and gone to the sheriff or, even better, to the FBI. Haddock was covering up a murder—probably more than one. August Montgomery’s death was the first she’d experienced in her short tenure, and she’d known him, even if it was only a few days. And no punishment for the boy who’d killed him? No visit from the sheriff to file a report? A rushed, unmarked burial in the woods with children digging his grave while his family still did not know he was dead? When she’d asked Haddock’s secretary the day before, she’d brusquely pointed out the typed envelope sitting in the outgoing mail bin, too late for the afternoon pickup. The boy would be buried for days before his family knew he was dead. Marian had tried to read the name and address, but that spiteful heifer had covered the envelope from her view and told her to stop sticking her nose in the superintendent’s mail.

Despite all of this, she’d gotten up and dressed for work and driven to the campus like it was an ordinary job on an ordinary day. If she tried to air Reformatory business with Haddock’s friends in the Gracetown establishment, she might end up behind bars herself on goodness knew what ridiculous charge, or have her house burned down. She knew better than to waste her time talking to that redneck sheriff, but why was she still here? Who was she becoming?

“For the boys,” she whispered to herself in the empty band room, among the rows of trombones, trumpets, and drums she had hoped would deliver joy. “I’m here to help these boys.”

But was she? Could she?

Marian didn’t usually leave the campus before six in case boys wanted to practice late, but she pulled open her desk drawer and began cramming the contents into her handbag: a hairbrush, a pack of Wrigley’s gum, her palm-sized photo of Walter. She had come to work as usual today, but no more. She had to tell Percy—

Marian sensed someone in her doorway and almost gasped at the shadow, convinced it was Warden Haddock ready to confront her and make good on the malicious promises in his eyes. But it was Percy, his hat in his hand across his chest. His face was wretched.

“I saw it,” Percy said softly. “The door was open, so I walked right in. I saw, Marian.”

Marian didn’t want to guess what horror her brother might have seen, so she waited for him to explain. “That shed. The one behind the administration building? I went inside.”

He looked pale enough to faint, so Marian pushed a wooden chair to him and he sank down. She closed the door behind him and pulled down her blinds so no one would spy on them.

“What did you see?” Marian said.

Percy’s glassy eyes stared ahead, miles beyond her. “I’ve driven boys there bound up like hogs,” he said, his voice cracking. “I did it just the other day. I thought it was just another punishment like the Box.”

“What’s worse than the Box?” Marian said. “We couldn’t have put prisoners of war down there without violating the third Geneva Convention. I’ve been telling you, Percy!”

“After what happened to August Montgomery, I had to go try to see about the stories. A boy told me Haddock rapes them in that shed.” He’d lowered his voice at the end, but not enough to blunt the shock to Marian’s ears. She’d heard of beatings and disappearances… but rape too?

Percy nodded to confirm the ugly truth. “Boy called Haddock the devil like he meant it. And I saw it, Marian. Not where the brooms and tools are up front—but in the back. Past a bedsheet hanging like a curtain. There’s a filthy, bloody mattress on the floor. And chains. Just like the boy said. He was telling the truth all along. Haddock’s barely trying to hide it. The door wasn’t even locked! I think Boone knows. Maybe they all know. And I drove that boy there.”

“Oh Lord,” Marian whispered, the silent prayer slipping from her lips. “Lord have mercy. We have to be away from this place, Percy. We have to tell.”

“I don’t have proof,” Percy said. “But after what I saw… I just know in my bones.”

“What about August Montgomery? Maybe we can call the NAACP…”

“The NAACP almost got Lower Spruce burnt down the other night!” Percy stood up, his strength returned. He rubbed his face as if his veil of conscience weighed too heavily upon him. “You’re talking foolishness.”

“Then we have to leave,” Marian said. “We have to leave and never come back. We can’t be a part of it, Percy! Every day we come here, we make what they do here seem all right. We’re no better than them!”

To her great relief, Percy was nodding. He had made up his mind before he came to her. “Yes,” he said. “But we can’t leave right now. There was a fire in the kitchen…” At her start, he held up his hand. “No one hurt too bad. Haddock is blaming a ghost.”