“What kind of place is this?” Katherine breathes. She’s just as awed as I am. I ain’t never seen something so amazing, and I’m half afraid that this ain’t real, just a fever dream from being locked up in that railcar.
“It’s my lab. I’m responsible for a lot of the technology you’ll see around Summerland. Electric lights,” he says, pointing to the ceiling. “Some of the farming equipment we use. I designed a lot of the weaponry. It’s my job here. You heard the sheriff up there—everyone in Summerland has their place, and it’s important to remember what it is.” There’s a tone in his voice, and I wonder if Mr. Gideon ain’t here by choice any more than me and Katherine.
He sighs and waves us over to a workbench along the back wall. A dozen different pieces lie across the surface, and he holds up a sharp needle attached to a glass vial.
“Every Negro who comes to Summerland gets vaccinated. The purpose is simple: the vaccination keeps you from turning if you get bit while on patrol.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
His eyebrows raise. “You don’t believe me?”
“While in Baltimore, I had the benefit of attending a lecture given by a professor named Ghering. You heard of him?”
Mr. Gideon puts down the syringe and crosses his arms. “I have.”
“Well,” I say, bending down to take the sheriff’s newspaper from the top of my boot. “I happened to kill the man the professor turned after his vaccine failed. Professor Ghering was no Louis Pasteur, I can tell you that. You can ask my Miss Katherine, she was there, too.” I slip back into the faithful servant act I put on for the Sheriff for just a moment. I don’t know this man, and I have to question the sanity of anyone who thinks sticking a needle in my neck is a good idea.
Mr. Gideon turns to Katherine, and she gives him a tight smile. “What Jane says is true. His vaccine didn’t work.”
Mr. Gideon gives me an appreciative smile. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me at all. But this is my vaccine, not his, and I happen to know for certain that this is the genuine article.”
“Oh. You test it out on Negroes as well?” I ask, the black feeling growing just a smidge. Despite his kindness, this man is just like the rest of his kind: polite until you tell them no.
“You’ll be the first. I tested it out on myself and a few unwilling cats. Now, please let me finish vaccinating you. I assure you that it’s perfectly safe. If you decide to put up any resistance, Bill back there would be happy to assist. I’m sure a lady of your bearing would much rather face adversity with her head held high than in physical restraint.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Please. I know what the sheriff has planned for you. It really is for your own good.”
I purse my lips to keep from telling him what I think of his assumption as to the nature of my character and inherent needs. I don’t like the idea of that needle punching holes in me. But I ain’t in any position to put up a real fight right now. I’m even more tired and hungry than when I got off the train, and I’ve no desire to get pummeled like poor Jackson. An uncertain future is still better than no future at all.
Besides, I have yet to find a jam I can’t get myself out of. One day this whole Summerland fiasco will just be an interesting footnote in the story of my life.
I step forward, pulling down my collar so Mr. Gideon can stick the needle in the hollow of my neck. He pulls up the leather string with my lucky penny on it, a single eyebrow raised. “Are you superstitious, Miss McKeene?”
“It’s only superstition if you don’t believe, Mr. Gideon.” This close his eyes are more green than brown, and they dance with humor as a smile quirks his lips.
“Quite so, Miss McKeene, quite so.” His hands are gentle, and the metal is cool as it pierces my skin. “Thank you,” he says, his voice low. It causes an odd shiver to go running down my spine, and I step backward a little too quickly, anxious to put some space between the two of us.
“Now, Miss Deveraux, it seems the sheriff believes you to be a white woman. Why is that?” Mr. Gideon takes off his spectacles and wipes them with his pocket square.
Katherine shoots me a glare. “Because someone told him I was.”
Mr. Gideon nods. “Well, phrenologists claim we can identify someone’s character and racial derivation by measuring the skull.” He goes to a drawer and pulls out a set of calipers.
I cough to cover my laughter. I’d been thinking Mr. Gideon was a fair sight smarter than the typical fellow in this place, but if he believes that he can tell anything by the size of someone’s head, he’s just as daft as the rest of them.
Katherine doesn’t say anything, but Mr. Gideon is gentle as he takes several measurements and jots them in a notebook.
“It looks like you’re telling the truth, according to my calculations,” Mr. Gideon says with a frown.
“Hooray for science,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I don’t believe in phrenology at all. It’s easily disproven, the pet hobby of bigots.”
I cross my arms. “Kate is white.”
Mr. Gideon gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I think. Pastor Snyder is the Sheriff’s father, and the real power in town. The preacher makes the final decision on all matters. These numbers are for him.”
“So this town is a family business, then? Good to know.” What a degenerate group of kinfolk. No wonder they found themselves exiled to the middle of the continent.
Katherine gives me another dirty look while Mr. Gideon packs away his implements and I shrug and give her an
