by John Saul
“I have to put the blood in.” Picking up Seth’s pocketknife, she moved close to the kettle, opened one of the blades, and held it against the forefinger of her right hand. Biting her lower lip so hard it hurt, she steeled her nerves, then jabbed the point of the knife into her finger. Handing the knife to Seth, she held her wounded forefinger over the kettle and squeezed it hard.
Two or three drops of blood fell into the water and instantly vanished.
“Do you think it’s enough?” she asked, watching as the water seemed to swallow up her blood without a trace.
Seth shrugged. “How should I know?” His gaze shifted to the open door and the downpour outside. “Think you have to get the dirt from Houdini’s grave, or can I?”
Angel’s brows knit. “I probably better.” She moved to the door and peered out. The sky—crystal clear when they’d arrived only a little while ago—was leaden now, and the clouds seemed to be getting darker even as she watched. Certain that the rain was only going to get worse, she darted out the door, snatched up a pinch of muck from the spot marked by the stone Seth had laid over Houdini’s grave, and ducked back inside.
Surprisingly, though it was pouring outside, she’d barely gotten wet.
She went back to the kettle and dipped her fingers in. The fire was blazing under it, and the water had already turned warm. Rinsing her fingers clean of the dirt from Houdini’s grave, she wiped them dry on her sweatpants and looked at Seth, who was once more studying the book. “Now what do we do?”
“Let it boil, I guess. But what about this other thing? What’s ‘blur of grief’?”
Angel figured it out immediately. “My tears,” she breathed. “Every time I think about Houdini, I get all—” Her voice broke once again, and almost as if in response to her words, her eyes blurred with tears. She moved quickly back to the kettle, swung it out of the fireplace, leaned over it, and thought once more of what her cousin had done to her pet.
Half a dozen tears dripped into the kettle.
Angel swung it back over the fire.
“That’s all it says,” Seth said softly. “Now we wait.”
Chapter 28
HE FLASH OF LIGHTNING, AND THE CRASH OF THUNDER that seemed to come at the same instant, made Marty Sullivan flinch so badly he dropped the pneumatic hammer he’d been using, which smashed down onto Ritchie Henderson’s toe.
Henderson jerked his injured foot out from under the heavy tool, bellowing with pain. “Jesus! What the hell—” But the rest of his words were lost as the sky seemed to open and a torrent of rain began pouring out of the roiling clouds overhead.
Holding his arms up in a futile effort to fend off the sudden downpour, Marty loped toward the site office, a slapped-together shed that was more of a lean-to than anything else. With most of its floor space already taken up by the wide counter covered with architectural plans for the project, there was barely enough space for Jack Varney himself, let alone all the men who worked for him. First come, first served, Marty thought as he ducked under the structure’s steeply sloping roof.
“Where the hell’d this come from?” Varney asked, gazing up at the sky as Marty tried to shake off some of the water that had already soaked through his shirt and jeans. “Am I nuts, or was it clear as a bell five minutes ago?”
Before Marty could respond, Ritchie Henderson hobbled into the crowded shelter. “What the hell goes with you, Sullivan?” he snarled, glowering at Marty with unconcealed fury. “First you drop the hammer on my foot, then you don’t even stick around to see if I’m okay.”
“You got here, didn’t you?” Marty shot back. “So I guess you’re not hurt too bad.”
Jack Varney gazed out into the downpour. “The pneumatic hammer?” he asked.
Ritchie Henderson nodded. “Lightning made him jump so bad it fell right out of his hand.”
“I coulda been killed!” Marty howled. “What’d you expect me to do?”
“I expect you to take care of the tools you use,” Varney interjected before Henderson could say anything. “Where is it now?”
“How the hell should I know?” Marty growled.
“You were using it—you’re responsible for it,” Varney replied, deciding to ignore the contempt in Sullivan’s voice. “What did you think—Ritchie would bring it in for you?”
“It’s fuckin’ pouring out there—” Marty began.
“Then you better get that hammer now,” Varney snapped, his eyes narrowing angrily. “It starts rusting out there, I’ll take it out of your paycheck.”
“You can’t do that,” Marty complained.
“The hell I can’t,” the foreman growled. “If you don’t like it, talk to Ed Fletcher.” His eyes bored into Marty, who stood his ground for only a few seconds before breaking.
“Maybe I’ll just do that,” Marty groused, but the truculence in his voice was tinged with enough of a whine that Varney knew he wouldn’t.
With the rain still pouring down, Marty left the shelter of the lean-to and slogged out toward the spot where he and Henderson had been working when the storm suddenly broke. The rain was coming down so hard that puddles had formed all over the site. They were fast merging together, turning the whole area into a muddy pond. Twice, he nearly sprawled out into the mud, but finally he found the pneumatic hammer, disconnected it from the air hose, and was about to start back toward the lean-to when another bolt of lightning struck, instantly followed by a thunderclap even louder than the first. This time, though, Marty was prepared for it, and ducking his head low into the rain, he began running back to the shed.
He was still a dozen yards away when he lost his footing and sprawled face forward into the mud. Swearing under his breath, he pulled himself to his feet and lurched the last few yards to the lean-to, where Jack Varney and Ritchie Henderson weren’t even trying to conceal their laughter.
“Here’s your damn hammer,” Marty rasped, his fury building. “And guess what? I’m through for the day!”
“We all are,” Varney replied, taking the pneumatic hammer. He wiped it off with a rag and laid it on the counter where the plans were spread out. “No way we can get anything more done today, even if this quits. See you Monday.”
Too soaked and muddy even to stop for a drink somewhere, Marty got into his old Chevelle, started the engine, and cursed when the windshield wipers refused to work. Jamming the car into gear, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and watched with grim satisfaction as the rear wheels spewed enough mud that neither Henderson nor Varney could avoid it. Serves ’em right, he thought as he sped away into the storm.
The only stop he did make on the way home was to buy a couple of six-packs, and by the time he got home he’d already consumed one of them.
“Angel?” he called out as he lurched through the front door. “You here?” When there was no answer, he went through the house to the kitchen, peeled off his muddy clothes and left them in a pile in the corner, then cracked open another beer. Wearing nothing but his underpants, he flopped down onto his favorite chair and stared moodily out at the raging storm. Where the hell was Angel? She should have been home by now. But even as the question came into his mind, Marty Sullivan knew the answer.
She was with that kid again.
And if he caught them, this time there’d be hell to pay.
Myra Sullivan had instinctively crossed herself and uttered a silent prayer to the Blessed Mother when the first bolt of lightning had struck, and repeated the prayer as the thunderclap rattled the windows of the church.
“Merciful heavens,” she breathed as Father Mike came through the door that led to the tiny sacristy a few minutes later. “It felt like the lightning was so close it might have hit the steeple!”
Father Mike smiled wryly. “I like to think that if God is going to strike us with lightning, He’ll at least have the good sense to strike down the heretics across the street.” When Myra Sullivan showed no sign of understanding that he was making a joke, his smile faded. “Actually, it probably
hit the tree in their cemetery,” he said. “There used to be a legend that every time that tree was struck by lightning, it meant someone in town was practicing witchcraft.”
Myra’s eyes widened. “Surely no one believes such a thing!”
“I don’t, and I suspect no one else does either. In fact, you’d better hope no one does.”
“Me?” Myra asked. “What are you talking about?”
“You remember the storm that hit on Saturday morning?” he asked. “The day your family arrived?”
“We were just starting to unload the truck,” Myra said, shuddering at the memory. “It could have ruined everything we own.”
“Well, at least one bolt of lightning hit the tree in the cemetery across the street. And with you moving into the old place out at the Crossing . . .” He let his words trail off, shrugging.
“What are you talking about?” Myra asked.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” the priest said. “Just all the old stories.” The look of incomprehension in Myra’s eyes made him cock his head slightly. “Didn’t your sister tell you about the stories?”
Myra frowned. “She told me about the last people that lived there,” she said.
Father Mike’s brows lifted a fraction of an inch. “There are legends that the two women who were accused of being witches here in Roundtree were burned under that tree, and from what I’m told, at least three people swore they saw the tree being struck by lightning at the same time that the women were casting spells.”
Myra’s expression darkened. “I don’t believe in witchcraft.”
“Nor do I,” the priest agreed. “And I doubt there’s a single person in town who does. But four hundred years ago they believed it enough to burn two women.”
“Surely it’s only a story,” Myra breathed.
“If it is, it’s pretty well documented—at least the burning part.” When Myra still looked doubtful, he led her toward the front door of the church, opening it just wide enough so they could peer at the storm raging outside. “It’s that tree over there,” he said, pointing to the barely visible form of an enormous tree that stood in the far reaches of the cemetery behind the Congregational church. “See the little stone building near the tree? That’s the original church. In fact, the women who were burned as witches were apparently relatives of the minister. His brother’s wife and daughter, I believe, or maybe his uncle’s. At any rate, the story is that they dragged them in from—”
He stopped abruptly, and Myra could tell by the look on his face that there was something he’d been about to say that he changed his mind about. “From where, Father?” she asked.
Father Mike Mulroney hesitated a moment, then decided there was no point in not finishing the story. It was, after all, just a story; whatever crimes the two women may have committed four centuries earlier, they certainly had nothing to do with witchcraft, no matter what people at the time might have thought. “Actually, they lived in your house,” he said. Seeing the shock in Myra’s eyes, he suddenly wished he hadn’t said anything at all.
Then, as Myra turned to gaze at the tree once more, a brilliant flash of light crossed the sky, and a jagged bolt of lightning, crackling and making the air smell of ozone, lashed down from the thunderheads above, struck the topmost branches of the great tree in the cemetery, and vanished in a thunderclap that shook the building.
“Saints preserve us,” Myra breathed.
Father Mike nodded absently, but his eyes stayed on the tree.
Just like last week, the lightning had struck the middle of the tree, and he assumed it must have passed all the way down through its trunk to reach the ground.
Last week, after the storm had passed, he had walked across the street to have a look at the tree.
And he’d seen nothing. The tree showed no signs of damage at all.
No burns on its bark.
No broken limbs.
Nothing.
Later this afternoon, he decided, when this storm had also blown on through, he would go across the street again, just to make sure. But even from here he could see that once again the tree had been struck by lightning and nothing had happened to it.
Nothing at all.
Chapter 29
NGEL AND SETH HAD NO IDEA HOW LONG THEY SAT cross-legged on the floor staring at the fire that burned steadily under the kettle hanging from the pothook. After the first two bolts of lightning faded away and their accompanying thunderclaps rolled into silence, the steady beat of rain outside and the flickering flames on the hearth had taken on an oddly hypnotic quality, so that when the rain suddenly stopped and the fire flickered abruptly out, neither of them was quite certain what had happened. For a moment they didn’t move.
Was it possible that the fire had gone out at the exact moment the rain stopped?
Finally, Seth unfolded his legs, realized how sore they were as he stood up, and looked at his watch. His eyes widened and he glanced at Angel. “How long do you think we’ve been sitting here?”
Angel cocked her head, frowning. “I don’t know—ten or fifteen minutes, I guess.”
“Try an hour and a half,” he said.
Now Angel scrambled to her feet, and the stiffness in her legs was enough to tell her that Seth was right. “What time is it?” she breathed.
“Five-thirty,” Seth replied. He went to the fireplace and knelt down. The fire under the kettle was completely out—not even the red glow of smoldering embers showed beneath the gray ash that was the only sign the fire had been there at all.
When he held his hand out, he felt no warmth. “It’s like it’s been out for days,” he said, his voice faintly hollow.
He reached out and touched the kettle.
It, at least, was still warm, but not so hot that his reflexes jerked his hand away. Gingerly, he reached for the rod from which the pot hung.
It wasn’t even warm. He pulled on the rod, swinging the kettle out of the fireplace.
Now Angel was next to him, and for a long moment they gazed into the kettle. All that was left of its contents was an inch of fluid at the bottom of the huge soup pot. “But it was almost half full,” Angel said. “How could that much of it have boiled away?”
Both of them swung around to look at the stone sink from which Angel had filled the kettle, but there was no longer any way of telling how much water she’d taken from it, for the basin was filled to the brim and a steady stream of water was flowing in through the wooden trough mounted high in the wall. The overflow was running out through the second trough below. As they watched, the inflow quickly slowed to a trickle, and then the trickle turned into the same rhythmic drip as when they first discovered the cabin.
Except they hadn’t discovered the cabin—Houdini had led them to it.
“I don’t get it,” Seth said. “If that much water boiled away, how come the fireplace isn’t even hot anymore, and the kettle’s cool enough so you can touch it?”
Instead of answering Seth’s question, Angel asked one of her own. “What are we supposed to do with it?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the small pool of liquid that covered the bottom of the kettle.
“I guess you’re supposed to drink it,” Seth said. When Angel paled, he added, “Well, what else would you do?”
“Would you drink it?” Angel challenged.
The words hung in the air as Seth too gazed into the depths of the kettle. When he finally answered her, his words sounded far braver than the tone of his voice. “Sure! I mean, why not? Practically all that’s in it is water, and I already drank the water from the sink.”
“And there’s blood, and dirt from outside,” Angel reminded him.
Seth chewed his lower lip for a moment, then shrugged. “I’d still drink it.”
Angel looked at him. “I dare you,” she said.
Once again her words hung in the air, and she could see Seth trying to make up his mind. He shrugged again, but this time with such an elaborate show of bravado that Angel knew he was a lot more frightene
d than he was willing to admit. “Okay,” he said. “I will if you will.” He went to the counter next to the huge stone sink and took one of the ladles from a hook. Reaching deep into the kettle, he dipped it into the liquid at the bottom, scooping up as much as the ladle would hold.
When he lifted it out again, it was still only half full.
He and Angel stared at it for several long seconds, but even in the ladle it looked no more dangerous than a ladle of water.
There was no hint of color.
No strange odor.
Holding the ladle between them, Seth looked into Angel’s eyes. “If I try it, you’ll try it?” he asked, and this time Angel had the feeling that if she so much as nodded, he’d drink from the ladle.
And then she would have to do it too.
The seconds ticked by until a full minute had passed. And then, almost against her own volition, Angel nodded and a single whispered word escaped her lips:
“Yes.”
Seth’s hand trembled as he lifted the ladle to his lips. He took a deep breath, tipped the ladle, and sucked half its contents into his mouth.
And tasted absolutely nothing.
It was as if he’d filled his mouth with the purest rainwater.
He swallowed the broth, then offered the ladle to Angel.
“Wh-What did it taste like?” she whispered, making no move to take the wooden dipper from him.
A sly grin came over Seth’s face. “Why should I tell you?” he said. “You promised to try it if I did, didn’t you?”
For a fraction of a second Angel was tempted to renege on her promise, but she put the impulse aside almost the moment it came over her. Reaching out, she took the ladle from him, took a deep breath in unconscious imitation of him, then held the dipper to her lips, tipped it back, and drained it into her mouth.
Water!
It was nothing but water!
It felt faintly warm in her mouth, but that was all.
She swallowed, and the water went down her throat.
Now the warmness she’d felt spread through her, but there was nothing unpleasant about the sensation.
