Page 61 of The Executioners Three
Mom didn’t respond, but Freddie didn’t need her to. Freddie knew it was true. She had grown up knowing it, even if those words had never fallen so directly from her mother’s or Steve’s mouth.
Frank Carter was a guy in some photos who occasionally remembered birthday cards and came by on Christmas mornings. But that had been the entire extent of his presence in Freddie’s life—and she’d always known it wasn’t because hecouldn’tbe there, but because he hadn’t wanted to.
Before Freddie could say anything else (not that she really knew what to say anyway), her mom liftedThe Curse of Allard Fortin. “So, um, why are you reading this?”
“Oh, right.” Freddie frowned.Focus on the task at hand. “I, uh, have a school project on… bellfounding,” she lied. “And with the fête coming up, I didn’t want to bother you.”
“I could literally talk about bellfounding in my sleep, Fred.”
“That would be funny to watch.” Freddie closed her eyes and feigned sleeping. “The ratio of tin… to… copper… changes…”
“The… color,” Mom picked up with a snore, “of… the… verdigris… and strength… of the bell.”
Together they laughed, and it was like a hose to a flame: any grief ortension that had just suffused the room was now snuffed out. Both Gellars could pretend it hadn’t happened, that Frank Carter had never been discussed between them and no rule had ever been broken.
“Ahem,” Steve declared, poking his head into the bedroom. “Dinner is served. Tonight’s menu is spaghetti Bolognese, and I hope it pleases you, m’ladies.”
“So what doesThe Curse of Allard Fortinsay?” Mom asked as they all sat at the table. “Oh, can you pass the pepper, Steve?”
“Um, it’s pretty nuts,” Freddie said honestly. “Like, full-on delusional. Fabre claims that José Allard Fortin had these three servants bound to him by blood that he brought over from France. And they basically killed people for him. Including all the competition of neighboring logging settlements. A rival suitor for his lover’s hand. A British flank of soldiers. And pretty much anyone else in his way.”
“Ooooh,” Steve crooned, handing the pepper to Mom. “Are we talking about a certain book that pissed off everyone in town?”
“You know the book?” Freddie asked. “By Edgar Fabre?”
“Of course. Well, sort of. That whole affair was before I was born, but my dad was still angry about it right up until the day he died.That ugly Fabre spewing his lies about our founder! I hope he rots!They ran the guy and his family out of town, you know.”
“Wait, what?” Freddie gaped. “That guy lived here? Edgar Fabre? Is he, by chance, still alive?”
“No, no.” Steve pulled a pained face. “He died pretty young, I think. In the 1960s, maybe? It was unsurprising, given that the book he wrote ruined his entire life. He used all of his family’s money to print it, then the Allard Fortins sued him into oblivion. Thenallof the town where he’d grown up turned on him. That kind of stress does not lead to a long, fulfilled life.”
Or maybe,Freddie thought, imagining her dad’s handwriting,Edgar didn’t die.
Except,The Curse of Allard Fortinwas also printed fifty years ago… which would make Edgar pretty darn old at this point.
“Why are we talking about this?” Steve asked, pouring way too much salt on his spaghetti—and earning a glare from Mom.
“Because Freddie found what might be the last remaining copy ofThe Curse of Allard Fortin.”
“Oooh, don’t let the Allard Fortins see,” Steve said with a grin. “They can be quite litigious.”
“From the grave?” Mom glared.
“Well,” Freddie said with a grin like Steve’s, “if Fabre’s book was accurate, then theycoulduse their cursed Executioners to kill me. Supposedly, they never die.”
“Executioners?” Steve said with wide-eyed glee. “This story gets better and better. So where are these supposed undead now?”
“Yeah.” Freddie waggled her eyebrows. “That’s one of the many holes in Fabre’s story. Supposedly the spirits of Allard Fortin’s Executioners can’t die. A hangsman, a headsman, and a disemboweler.”
“Adisembowler?” Steve squawked. “Oh my goodness, we should try to republish this, Patty. I mean, this is some great material. We could probably sell the rights to Hollywood. Can you imagine disemboweling on the big screen? Wait—you do know what disemboweling is, right?”
“I’m a historian, Steve, and fully insulted by this question.”
“Well,Idon’t know what it is,” Freddie inserted. “Isn’t it just removing someone’s organs?”
“Oh no.” Steve’s eyes lit up. “It’s so much more horrifying.” He leaned onto his elbows, voice dropping to a delighted whisper. “Disemboweling is where they slice open your abdomen and pull out the end of your large intestine. Then they nail it to a tree and make youwalkyourself around the tree.”
To display this, Steve stabbed his fork into the spaghetti and slowly twirled. “It’s slow, brutal, and one of the most gruesome ways to die.”
