by Bill Crider
Jack laughed so hard that Sally was afraid he might fall off the chair. When he finally got control of himself again, he said, “I got that e-mail. The more I thought about it, the more I thought it made sense. It explains that cat of yours, for one thing.”
“Lola is not a witch’s familiar.”
“She’s mean enough to be.”
Sally knew that Jack was only joking, but she still felt a bit defensive. She didn’t like for people to say bad things about Lola. It was all right for Sally to say them, but others weren’t allowed.
“Lola’s a very sweet cat,” Sally said.
“To you, maybe. Not to anybody else.”
“Let’s get back to Fieldstone,” Sally said.
Jack wiped his eyes. “Yeah. I thought he might call you in to talk to you about Curtin.”
“What happened with Curtin was a long time ago. We’ve said all that had to be said, held all the hearings, and closed the book on the whole mess. His death doesn’t change that.”
“The book wasn’t closed on everything. Not for Curtin.”
“What else is there?”
“The bond issue. Curtin was working behind the scenes to get the bond defeated. Have you seen those ads paid for by the Citizens for Fiscal Responsibility?”
Sally had seen them. The position taken by the ad writer was that the college had been spending money foolishly for years. There was no need for a bond issue, just a change in administration. Throw the rascals (meaning the president and the board) out, hire a new president and vote in new board members with a vision for the future, a vision that didn’t involve bond issues and more taxes.
“Curtin had something to do with the ads,” Jack said. “He planned to run for the board at the next election, and then you’d be toast. Along with everyone else who got him fired.”
“I didn’t get him fired. He got himself fired.”
“Tell that to Curtin.”
“I can’t,” Sally said. “According to you, he’s dead.”
“Yeah. That’s probably your fault, too.”
“He might think so if he were around to offer an opinion.” Sally knew that sounded cold, but she had never liked Curtin, and it was hard to feel sorry for him now that he was gone. “How did he die?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Jack said. “The rumor is that he choked to death on his own blood.”
Arrest Warrant for Sarah Good, February 1692
Whereas Mrs. Joseph Hutcheson, Thomas Putnam, Edward Putnam, and Thomas Preston, Yeomen of Salem Village in the County of Essex personally appeared before us, and made complaint on behalf of their Majesties against Sarah Good, the wife of William Good of Salem Village, abovesaid for suspicion of witchcraft by her committed, and thereby much injury done to Elizabeth Parris, Abigail Williams, Anna Putnam, and Elizabeth Hubert, all of Salem Village aforesaid sundry times within this two months and lately also done, at Salem Village contrary to the peace of our Sover’n L’d and Lady W’m & Mary King & Queen of Engld &c—You are therefore in their Majesties’ names hereby required to apprehend & bring before us the said Sarah Good, tomorrow about ten of the clock in the forenoon at the house of Lt. Nathaniell Ingersalls in Salem Village or as soon as may be then & there to be Examined Relating to the abovesaid premises, and hereof you are not to fail at your peril.
4
Jack Neville walked down the hallway to his office, glad that Sally hadn’t asked him how he knew so much about what the Garden Gnome had been thinking.
The truth was that Curtin, for reasons that Jack couldn’t fathom, had gotten the idea that Jack was his friend. Maybe it was because they’d taught in the same department for years, often in adjoining classrooms, though they’d hardly ever spoken more than a couple of words to each other.
But since the tech stock debacle, Curtin had called Jack every now and then to tell him the latest chapter of his sad story or to complain about how badly HCC in general—and Sally Good in particular—had treated him.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Jack had always listened patiently. He told himself that it was doing Curtin good to get the bile out of his system, and it was better for him to be taking it out on Jack than on someone else. Sally, for example.
Besides, Jack was interested when Curtin started telling him about his plans to run for the college board. Jack didn’t think the man had a chance of winning, but if he did, things would certainly be different. The current board was composed entirely of people who had the school’s best interests in mind. Curtin would be a loose cannon, and he could cause a lot of trouble.
When Jack had received the e-mail about Sally’s being a witch, his first thought was that Curtin had sent it. And maybe he had. Jack didn’t know when he had died. He could have sent the e-mail first. The e-mail had come from some Web address of convenience, and it could have been sent by anyone.
At any rate, Jack didn’t want to think about it. He had other things on his mind, like his new computer game addiction. It seemed that every time he managed to conquer one addiction, a new one took its place. So, he thought, he probably didn’t really conquer anything. He just replaced one addiction with another. This time, while kicking the Free Cell habit, he had become addicted to Spider Solitaire. He was just advancing to the second level, and he was eager to try his hand at a few games before his next class. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. He had half an hour.
Except that he had company. Like Sally, and most of the other faculty members, Jack rarely locked his office, and he often left the door open all day, even while teaching or visiting someone else’s office. Students at HCC were honest. Either that, or they didn’t want anything he owned. He’d never had anything stolen.
But now and then unexpected guests turned up. Sometimes the guests were a pleasant surprise. Sometimes they weren’t. In this case, Eric Desmond, chief of the HCC police, and Detective Weems of the local police force were waiting for him.
Jack felt an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. It hadn’t been so very long ago that he’d been accused of murder, hauled off to the police station, and given the third degree.
“Not again,” he said, looking at the two men who were making themselves at home in his office.
“Don’t worry, Neville,” Desmond said. “This isn’t about you. Nothing to get excited about.”
Desmond was nearly sixty, but he was fit and trim and looked like a much younger man. And he dressed like one, too. It was hard for Jack to think of a policeman as being dapper, but if there was ever a dapper cop, Desmond was the one.
“I’m not excited,” Jack said. “Just scared of getting the third degree again.”
“We didn’t give you the third degree,” Weems said. “If we had, your kneecaps wouldn’t have healed by now.”
Weems wasn’t dapper. He was, in fact, a little bit sloppy. He was tall, with a big stomach. Jack thought he could have used some diet and fitness advice from Desmond.
“You’re joking, right?” Jack said.
Weems gave him a flat stare. “You don’t want to know.”
He was right, even if he was only kidding, so Jack just nodded.
“What’s all this?” Weems asked, indicating a stack of books on Jack’s desk beside his computer. “I thought you’d be reading Hemingway or somebody like that.”
The books were all histories of rock ‘n’ roll, as that was one of Jack’s interests. Community college instructors weren’t required to publish, but if they did, the publications didn’t affect their pay or their status. Jack liked to write, and the school’s attitude gave him the freedom to write about whatever he enjoyed. At the moment, he was working on an article about independent recording labels in Texas in the late 1950s, like the “D” label on which the Big Bopper had originally recorded “Chantilly Lace” in 1958.
Jack liked the fifties. He’d seen Rebel without a Cause on television at an impressionable age and loved everything about it: the cars, the clothes, the actors, the attitudes. Since that time he’d studied
the era, especially its music, with something bordering on obsession. But he never let his infatuation with the past interfere with his life in the present.
“I’m interested in history,” Jack said in answer to Weems’s question. “You haven’t said why you’re here.”
“Because a friend of yours died,” Weems said. “Harold Curtin.”
The building was air-conditioned, but Jack started to sweat a little. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going.
“I heard about that. But Harold wasn’t my friend.”
“He had your telephone number written in a notebook by his phone. He must have talked to you recently.”
“He called now and then. Not recently. Why do you care?”
“Did you hear how he died?”
“Some kind of hemorrhage,” Jack said. “Why would that interest the police?”
“We’re always interested when someone dies under odd circumstances.”
Jack wondered what the odd circumstances could be. He’d heard about Curtin’s death from Troy Beauchamp, who was always the first with the news about anything and everything. Troy had been on his way to class when he’d told Jack, and he hadn’t mentioned any odd circumstances. He’d made Jack promise not to tell Sally. Troy wanted to tell her himself, but he didn’t have time before class. Jack had promised, but he’d kept his fingers crossed.
“I didn’t hear anything about the circumstances,” Jack said. “Just that he died of a hemorrhage.”
“You know anything about an e-mail that was sent out about your department head?” Weems asked.
“If you mean the one about her being a witch, I got a copy. So did a lot of other people, or so I’ve heard. What does that have to do with Curtin?”
“Maybe nothing. What did he call you about?”
“Just to complain about life in general. We taught in the same department for a long time so we knew each other. I think he needed to vent now and then, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one he called.”
“Did he ever mention being cursed?”
Jack almost laughed, but Weems wasn’t the kind of guy you laughed at. Jack stopped himself just in time and said, “No, I don’t think he ever said anything about being cursed. Was he?”
“I don’t believe in things like that,” Weems said. “But Curtin might have. Do you know much about the Bible?”
Jack looked at Desmond, who hadn’t said a word since Weems had begun talking. Desmond just shrugged. Jack turned back to Weems and said, “I took some courses in biblical history in college. I’m far from an expert. What does the Bible have to do with anything?”
“There’s a verse in the book of Revelations,” Weems said.
“Revelation,” Jack said, remembering that Sally had told him once that Roy Don Talon, one of the school’s board members, had made the same mistake. “There’s no s on it. It’s ‘the Revelation of St. John the Divine.’”
It was Weems’s turn to look at Desmond, who shrugged again.
“You learn something every day,” Weems said. “Anyway, there’s a verse in the book of Revelation that says, ‘For men have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given them blood to drink. It is their due.’”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Jack said. “I don’t remember that verse. And I’m not quite sure what point you’re trying to make.”
Weems didn’t look up from his notebook, and he didn’t respond to Jack’s comment. He said, “And then there’s something from somewhere else. ‘God will give you blood to drink.’” He looked up at Jack. “Ever hear that one?”
“I’ve seen it in a couple of places,” Jack said.
“What places?”
“It’s in a book by Nathaniel Hawthorne, The House of the Seven Gables, and it’s in the records of the Salem witchcraft trials.”
“You know who said it at those trials?”
Jack knew. He’d studied the trials in graduate school, and the e-mail about Sally had brought the name back to mind.
“A woman named Sarah Good,” he said.
Weems looked at his notebook, nodded, and flipped the notebook closed. He stuck the notebook back in his pocket.
“I guess that’s it, then.”
He stood up, and Desmond opened the office door. The two cops went out. Desmond nodded at Jack as he left, but Weems ignored him. However, before they’d gone more than a couple of steps, Weems turned back to Jack.
“I just thought of another question,” Weems said.
Jack wondered if Weems had been watching Columbo reruns.
“What?” he said.
“Did Dr. Good and Curtin have any problems?”
Jack hoped that Weems couldn’t tell how much he was sweating now. He said, “There was an incident once. Chief Desmond can tell you more about that than I could.”
“I wasn’t talking about the past. I was talking about lately.”
“Not that I know about,” Jack said.
“No conflict about the current interests of the college?”
Jack could have said, “That makes two questions,” but he didn’t think Weems would appreciate the humor. So instead he said, “I don’t have any idea about that.”
“How about the bond election?”
That’s three, Jack thought. He said, “They were on opposite sides.”
“That’s what I thought,” Weems said.
He seemed about to say more, but the bell rang and students flooded into the hallway chattering away to each other and into their cell phones. Weems gave Jack a little wave and turned to join Desmond, who was waiting for him. Jack watched them go. He was sure they were headed for Sally’s office, but he didn’t follow them. He knew they wouldn’t like that one bit, and he had a class in a few minutes. He turned to his desk and started getting his things together.
5
Troy Beauchamp made a beeline for Sally’s office as soon as class was over. He didn’t actually shove any of the milling students aside, but he did brush a few of them with his shoulders as he dashed down the hallway. He arrived at Sally’s door practically breathless, but he still had enough air left to say, “Have you heard about Harold Curtin?” as soon as he reached the doorway.
Sally looked up from the papers she’d been grading and smiled. She knew Troy was going to be crushed, but she told him the truth.
“Yes,” she said. “Jack told me.”
Troy was rendered momentarily speechless, which was for him an unaccustomed condition. He was a careless dresser, and as he stood there with his mouth slightly agape, Sally noticed that he’d missed a loop when he put on his belt. She didn’t tell him, however.
“Neville’s a rat,” Troy said after a few seconds. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “He promised he’d let me tell you. It’s a shame when you can’t even trust your own colleagues.”
Sally smiled, but the smile slipped away when Weems and Desmond appeared behind Beauchamp.
Troy turned around to see what Sally was looking at. When he saw the two policemen standing at his back, he said, “Excuse me,” and left without another word.
Knowing Troy as she did, Sally would have been willing to bet that Troy hadn’t gone far. He was most likely lurking somewhere within earshot, so she invited Weems and Desmond to come into her office.
“You don’t have to close the door if you just need my help in how to use who and whom correctly,” Sally said. “Or even if you just want to know something about the use of the apostrophe.”
Weems and Desmond stepped inside, and Desmond closed the door behind them. The door wasn’t an entirely effective barrier, because it had louvers in it, but it was better than nothing. If Troy overheard anything they said, it would be all over the building within minutes, if not seconds.
“I take it you aren’t here to get any information about errors in writing,” Sally said. “You might as well have a seat, then.”
Weems sat in the chair beside her desk, while Desmond took one at the computer desk
behind her. Sally waited patiently for them to tell her what they wanted.
“We’ve been talking to Jack Neville,” Weems said after a second or two.
Sally thought he would go on, but he didn’t. So she asked how Jack was doing, as if she didn’t know.
“He’s all right,” Weems said. “He wasn’t very helpful, though.”
Sally hadn’t eaten a Hershey bar after Jack had left her office, but now she wished she had. Digesting chocolate would have helped her deal with Weems.
“What kind of help do you need?” she asked. “Is it about Jack?”
“It’s not about Neville this time. I’m looking for some information about one of your former teachers.”
“Which one?” Sally asked, though she was pretty sure she knew the answer.
“Harold Curtin,” Weems said, confirming her suspicions. “You and he had some problems at one time, I think.”
“One problem, and it was his, not mine. It was handled by the college. I haven’t seen him since he retired.”
“Retired?” Weems gave her a skeptical look. “I guess that’s one way to put it. But he didn’t leave voluntarily, did he?”
“He didn’t have much choice in the matter, if that’s what you mean.
“That’s what I mean,” Weems said. “And now he’s dead. You’ve heard about that?”
“I’ve heard.”
“News gets around this place fast,” Weems said with a glance at Desmond.
“Telegraph, telephone, tell a teacher,” Desmond said. He seemed a bit nervous to Sally, and that was unusual. Desmond wasn’t the nervous sort. “The three fastest means of communication in higher education. Not necessarily in that order, either.”
“That’s a really old joke,” Weems said. “Does anybody these days even know what telegraph means?”
“I know,” Desmond told him. “But then I’m an old guy.”
“I guess so.” Weems turned back to Sally. “You’re probably wondering why I’m asking you these questions.”
