Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside

by Heather Graham

  She walked into the barn. She’d had Jake Mallory perform his computer magic and get his hands on the crime-scene photos and send them through to her email, so she could close her eyes and imagine the scene. Peter Andres had died with his eyes open, a look of astonishment still on his face. His killer had used the scythe first against his throat; the victim had gripped his neck, stunned, trying to fight the flow of blood. He had gone down, and the killer had finished it all off with a few swipes to his chest. The murder hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, the first strike had been so swift.

  Jenna stood in the dead center of the barn and closed her eyes.

  She could see Peter Andres. He had been a big man, white haired and white bearded. He had been raking autumn leaves the wind had swept into the barn.

  She frowned, opening her eyes. She’d had a sense of someone so strong that she had to see if it was real or not.

  She was alone in the barn.

  And yet…

  She’d felt as if there was someone there. Someone, or a something. There had been a figure in a cape and cowl—and some kind of a demon mask.

  Halloween. It was Halloween season.

  But it hadn’t been Halloween when Peter Andres had been killed. And still, she was certain that she’d had a sense of such a person, looking around the barn door first, seeing Peter…

  And rushing in.

  The mask had been…a demon face. The figure had been dressed like a caped and cowled version of the horned demon. Satan? Malachi’s father had suggested that despite the fact that the Wiccan religion had no demons, they actually did have a devil, one of their earth gods in disguise. She didn’t know that much about the religion, but she knew that it was far different than the kind of imagined “witchcraft” that people had been persecuted for in the past.

  She closed her eyes again. There was a rush in the air around her, a rush of movement. Peter Andres had been taken entirely by surprise. A big man, he could have defended himself.

  He’d never had the chance.

  He’d looked up from his work to see the figure racing toward him. He’d been confused, frowning over the evil vestige of the whirlwind hurtling into his body. He probably hadn’t even noticed that the demon-thing was carrying a scythe.

  She felt movement in the air. Someone was there.

  She opened her eyes, backing away, instinct warning her of danger.

  And ran into a little blonde woman.

  “Miss Duffy? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Alison Chart, the Realtor.”

  * * *

  Councilman Andy Yates didn’t give Sam any kind of a runaround.

  Sam stopped in at his office on Pickering Wharf, where, when not being a councilman, Andy Yates bought and sold period furniture and collectibles.

  The young secretary in the front vestibule was a man, and he apparently recognized Sam. Sam had to be more than a decade older than the fresh-faced twenty-something sitting there, so he knew he wasn’t an old acquaintance.

  “Sorry for staring, Mr. Hall. I know you from the magazines.” He stood to shake Sam’s hand. “I’ll tell Mr. Yates that you’re here. Oh, sorry, I’m Greg Mason. Glad to meet you.” He walked straight to the door of the inner office and tapped on it. Opening it, he announced Sam’s arrival.

  Andy Yates was standing when Sam entered. He was a man in his early forties, trim and in shape, with a pleasant face and a headful of sandy-brown hair. He shook Sam’s hand. “I’ve heard you’re defending Malachi Smith. I’m glad to hear it. I’m sorry for that young man. He needs to be locked up, of course, but I’m sorry for him. He didn’t have much of a chance, living at Lexington House with that strange family of his.”

  “That’s generous of you, Mr. Yates,” Sam said.

  “Andy, please. I’m a man of the people—or I try to be,” Yates said, offering Sam a grin and a shrug. Sam could see how he made a good politician. He was self-effacing, and had slightly aging boy-next-door charm that surely stood him well. “Sit down, please. How can I help you here in our small town?” Grinning, he returned to his swivel chair behind the desk; Sam sat in the comfortably upholstered chair in front of the desk.

  Sam grinned, as well. “I’m from here, actually.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten. I’m actually from Marblehead.”

  “Beautiful place, and around the corner,” Sam said.

  Yates nodded. “Listen, I’m more than happy to help you—I’m just not sure how.”

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you could explain to me what happened between your son, David, and Malachi Smith.”

  Yates sighed, looking down at his folded hands. “Well, I bet you know the basic story of the staring and the lunch tray and whatnot. But it’s something I never understood—and wanted to forget. And, of course, I was worried sick about my own boy, but furious with the whole group of his friends for teasing that poor Smith kid so mercilessly.”

  “How badly was your son hurt?” Sam asked.

  “He spent a night in the hospital, mostly precautionary. There was no major damage done, and he did it himself. He told me that Malachi gave him the evil eye, and every one of his friends agreed, of course. But I never really knew what to think…. I love my son, of course, Mr. Hall.”

  “Sam, since you’re Andy.”

  “Sam,” Yates said. He shook his head, as if still in bewilderment three years later. “I took David to a doctor, of course. A psychiatrist.”

  “Not Jamie O’Neill?” Sam asked.

  “Jamie O’Neill is the best in the area, in my opinion. But my wife didn’t want any kind of a conflict of interest. We took him to a Dr. Hawkins at UMass. Hawkins told us that suggestion could make people do all kinds of things. If David believed that Malachi Smith was giving him the evil eye, it was real in his own mind.”

  “You didn’t harbor any ill will toward Malachi?”

  Yates sniffed. “The kid? No. I blamed it on the parents. Strict—and maybe they bought into those house legends or something. You know, I tried to buy the house. Old Abraham wouldn’t sell. And then I tried to forget the whole lunchroom thing. I mean, there was really nothing to be done. On the council here, we’re always trying to keep a good balance going between our population of traditionalists, Wiccans, atheists—hell, you name it. The world moves on, you know? I thought that social services should have moved in, but apparently the Smiths didn’t beat the kid, they didn’t do anything illegal. They were just ridiculously strict, from what I hear. No one could help Malachi. Frankly, I’m not surprised that the boy finally freaked out and lashed out on his folks.”

  “Yes, but you know, I assume, that the police were watching him in the cases of the farmer, Peter Andres, killed in Andover, and the neighbor, Earnest Covington, who was just killed last week.”

  “Well, Peter had been a substitute at his school, and, as far as I know, he was well enough liked. Maybe Malachi, in that crazy mind his parents created, thought that Peter was responsible for his misery.”

  “What about the neighbor?”

  “Maybe he saw Malachi doing weird things, who the hell knows? Look at me—I’m no cop!” Yates chuckled. “But, look, I believe in justice, and I don’t loathe you for defending him. I’m assuming you’ll work on an insanity plea, and I’m sure you’ll do well. Trust me, I’d hate to see him thrown into a hardened prison population, but when it comes to locking up the boy, I’m all for it. I feel sorry for him, but I don’t want him loose.”

  Sam decided not to tell Andy Yates that Malachi Smith claimed to be innocent.

  “Would you mind if I talked to your son, Andy?” he asked.

  Yates laughed softly. “I wouldn’t mind—but you’ll have to talk to my wife. Our two kids are her life—she’s a veritable barracuda when it comes to them.” He paused, scratching out a number on a piece of paper. “You call her—I have to live with her!”

  Sam smiled and accepted the piece of paper. He was definitely interested in meeting the boy who had beaten himself
in the head because of Malachi’s evil eye.

  He exchanged a pleasant set of goodbyes with the councilman and dialed the number right after he left the office. Mrs. Yates hung up the minute he identified himself. He tried again. This time, she had a few words for him.

  “You leave me alone! Don’t you dare go near my son—you’re slime, pure slime! You think you’re a hotshot, getting killers off? Well, you stay the hell away from my son. I’ll have you arrested if I hear that you’re within a hundred yards of him. You go to hell, Mr. Hall. You’re trying to defend the devil, and you’re a demon yourself for doing it! You’re a crooked, money-grubbing bastard, and you will stay the hell away from my son!”

  Again, the phone went dead.

  Sam wasn’t sure if he was amused or dismayed. He decided to start at it all from a different angle. Surely, there was someone out there who wasn’t entirely biased.

  He hesitated, and then put in a call to Jenna Duffy.

  “What are you doing?” he asked her.

  He thought that she hesitated a minute. “I came out to see the Andres home in Andover,” she said.

  He frowned. “Alone?” He didn’t know why that worried him. It was broad daylight and, according to everyone, Peter Andres’s murderer was in custody.

  Did he believe that himself now? He just didn’t know.

  “I called the Realtor,” Jenna said. “She’s nice. I admitted I was looking into the case—on my uncle’s behalf. She was okay with it after I explained. I’m not sure she believes she’s ever going to sell the house anyway, unless she finds someone with a really morbid curiosity.”

  “Anything helpful? What did you see?”

  “I’ve seen the house and the barn where he was killed. It’s wiped clean,” she added. “And you?”

  “I was thinking of shopping and sightseeing. Actually, there’s one old friend I want to stop in on—at a witchcraft shop on Essex Street. Want to come?”

  “Sightseeing and shopping,” she said drily. “Sure.”

  “I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

  * * *

  “Sam! Sam Hall! I’d heard you were here!”

  The words were spoken by a dark-haired young woman standing behind the counter of A Little Bit of Magic. Her pretty features were lit up, and she came walking around the sales station and threw her arms around Sam’s neck and gave him a fierce hug. She pulled away quickly and gave Jenna an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen this boy in a long, long time! Not since the funeral.”

  “I haven’t been back since the funeral, Cecilia,” Sam said. “Do you remember Jenna Duffy? She’s Jamie’s niece. I think you two tortured my parents together years ago.”

  “Oh! Oh, of course! Jenna—I didn’t recognize you at first. How could I have missed that red hair? I didn’t mean that rudely—it’s beautiful hair. Jenna, how are you?” Cecilia asked, overly emphatically.

  “I’m good, thank you, and honestly, Cecilia, I didn’t recognize you at first, either,” Jenna told her. Sam had said they were going to stop in on an old friend. She hadn’t realized that it was a mutual acquaintance. Cecilia Sanderson. She was a year or two older than Jenna, but Salem hadn’t been a big place, and when they were young, she’d lived close to Jamie—and to Sam Hall’s parents’ home. Naturally, the two girls had been thrown together on those occasions when Jenna visited.

  Cecilia grinned. “Well, I have changed a great deal. My real hair color is mousy-brown—for some reason, if you run a Wiccan shop, you’re more alluring with very dark hair. And black clothing, of course.”

  “Cecilia is a Wiccan now,” Sam explained.

  Cecilia elbowed him. “Sam doesn’t believe in anything. We’re a recognized religion.”

  “Hey, I just question what you really believe!” Sam said, not offended.

  Cecilia waved a hand in the air. “This is really still a small town,” she said. “People talk, and judge. Most of the time, our ‘traditionalists’ are pretty tolerant and grateful that people love coming up here just for the Wiccan shops and curios, and so on and so on. People are more tolerant when there’s money to be had.”

  “And,” Sam said, leaning casually on the counter, “you know as well as I do that half the people who come here to open up shop are playing at being Wiccan.”

  “Better Wiccan than fanatical!” Cecilia said. “I believe in cause no harm to others. Some fundamentalists of other religions believe in killing in the name of God, Sam.”

  He smiled. “I’m not judging you, Cecilia. I promise. I know you’re a good person.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” she said and laughed. “How do you like the shop?”

  “It’s really beautiful, so well decorated and laid out,” Jenna told her. She was sincere. The windows were decorated for fall, with shimmering silk flowers and leaves, and mannequins wearing fine velvet Wiccan capes and beautiful silver jewelry. Handsome signs done in curving but legible calligraphy pointed out that herbs and jewelry were in the front, curios and books in the center section and clothing to the rear.

  Cecilia smiled. “I always wanted my own shop! Well, it’s almost my own. Do you remember Ivy Summers?” she asked.

  “Could I forget?” Sam asked, and rolled his eyes. “She broke my Nintendo!”

  Jenna laughed. “I remember Ivy, yes.”

  “We actually own the shop together. Ivy is at home, working the computer sales, which are fantastic. We’re really pleased.”

  “That’s great,” Sam told her.

  “Ah, well, not as great as being an attorney who shows up on the front page of the Huffington Post, CNN—you name it! And now, so I hear, you’re defending the Smith boy!” she said, her voice curious and excited. “Give! Is it true? Sam, that whole family was whacked-out crazy, you know.”

  “Cecilia! Would you be judging others?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “No. Yes. Well, you have to judge them. Wiccan, Judeo-Christian, whatever! The whole rest of the town thought they were all crazy.”

  “But there are people who think you’re crazy,” Sam reminded her. “Sorry, I don’t mean you. I mean all Wiccans.” He smiled broadly.

  She waved a hand in the air. “Hey, yeah, well, people are people, and we don’t all get along. But that’s different.”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend!”

  “You are exasperating!” Cecilia said. She looked at Jenna. “So…are you two dating now or something?”

  “No…” Jenna said, startled and looking at Sam.

  “Malachi Smith was Jamie’s patient at one time,” Sam explained. “She’s helping me, because her uncle believes in Malachi’s innocence.”

  Cecilia seemed puzzled. “But—it’s all cut-and-dried, isn’t it? Aren’t you going to pursue an insanity plea or whatever?”

  “I can’t really talk about that,” Sam said, shifting gears. “So, you give! Any great grudges dominating the town talk these days? Any shopkeepers stolen the customers of another? What’s the rumor mill like? Any idea how the local pot and meth trade are doing?”

  Cecilia looked at them both incredulously. “Wait, you think that the Smith family was murdered over drugs?”

  “Probably not,” Sam said. “But, hey, I thought I’d throw some stuff out there, since you talk to everyone, figured you’d know about town dynamics. Like, was Abraham Smith fighting with anybody?”

  Cecilia laughed. “Anybody? How about everybody? No one liked him much, but no one bothered with him much. His wife never left the house.” She frowned. “Oh, there was a fellow—a councilman—who had wanted to buy the property. I think someone else wanted to buy it, too. Wiccan gossip at the bars late at night…” she explained. “I’m sorry, don’t know if it’s true or not, but—oh, there was something in the local paper about the councilman vying for the place.”

  “Councilman Yates?” Sam asked.

  “Um, yes, I think so,” Cecilia said. “And someone else…a magician, a medium, someone like tha
t—oh, yes! Samantha Yeager.”

  “Two interested parties—for a house with that reputation?” Jenna asked, trying to refocus Cecilia’s energetic talking.

  “Well, of course! What a tourist attraction—the only reason that they talk about it in the paper like that,” Cecilia said.

  “But they can’t get rid of Peter Andres’s place,” Jenna said. “I was just out there, and I met with the Realtor.”

  Cecilia shrugged, grinning broadly. “The Lexington House has a truly ghastly and grim history—the farm out in Andover had one bad thing happen, even if it was pretty bad. And that’s recent. People like historic ghosts much more than modern ghosts. Unless, of course, it’s a modern celebrity ghost. Everyone wants to stay at that Hard Rock in Florida in the room where Anna Nicole Smith died. But no one knew Peter Andres. Oh, come on, you don’t need to be a psychiatrist to notice the way that people just are!”

  “So, historically, we all know about the Lexington family, and the Braden family after them—so the house was worth a good deal if you want to open a tourist attraction,” Sam said.

  “Oh, yes, of course. I think that the woman I was telling you about—Samantha Yeager—wanted the house for work. She’s kind of a newcomer—okay, she’s from as far away as Plymouth—but she reads tarot cards and does palm readings, sells cards, herbs and all the same stuff that we do. Yeah, yeah, I remember someone saying that she said it looks like the Lizzie Borden place, which is now like a B and B or something.”

  “People would go to her rather than someone else for the ambience of the house?” Jenna asked drily.

  “Of course! I’ll bet you it will be worth a mint now. Hey, the Smith kid will be able to pay you, Sam, if they sell it,” Cecilia said cheerfully.

  “I’m doing the work pro bono,” Sam told her.

  “Well, that’s kind of you, to help such a nutty kid.”

  “I guess that’s universally accepted?” Jenna asked.

  They both stared at her.

  “Universally, as in locally, I mean,” Jenna said.

  Cecilia nodded. “It’s like knowing about kooks anywhere you live, you know. Everybody knew that family—although, usually we didn’t give them all much thought. And, of course, in this area, Lexington House is legendary. Everyone thought it fitting that the Smiths lived there.” She grinned. “And, of course, in Salem, you have all the curiosity seekers who come to see what modern witches look like! It may be ‘Witch City,’ but we’re still the minority. I mean, we should be the alternative people. The Smith family made us all seem part of the same fabric in a way….” Cecilia was thoughtful a minute. “You know, if it weren’t backward…”