by Bill Crider
“What he found was a bunch of people who drove BMWs and wore expensive running shoes,” Ellen continued.
Sally had a hard time picturing Curtin in a Beemer or even in running shoes. He’d have been more out of place in either than he would have in Hawthorne’s dark woods.
“But why did he join a coven in the first place?” she asked.
“It was part of his plan to get back at you for getting him fired.”
“He got himself fired. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Not to hear him tell it.” Ellen’s tone was skeptical. “Anyway, it was Harold’s idea for me to send the e-mail. He made the connection with your last name and the name of a real-life witch. He said the witch was your ancestor, and he decided he needed to know a little more about witches. He learned all he cared to after about three meetings of the coven. Eventually there would have been more e-mails about you, using some of the information he’d gathered.”
Sally thought that Curtin had been using Ellen to do his dirty work, and she thought Ellen was a jerk for going along with him. But she didn’t say so.
“What about those references to blood in the note?” Sally said.
“That was from The House of the Seven Gables. It had something to do with the witch with your name.”
Sally didn’t bother to correct her about the name. She said, “Why did that interest him?”
“He thought he could cause you some trouble because of the connection to your ancestor.”
“She wasn’t my ancestor,” Sally said, unable to resist this time.
“Whatever you say. Harold thought differently. Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Go on,” Sally said.
“Fine. Harold was fascinated that your ancestor killed someone with a curse. Harold said you’d killed him the same way.”
“He was alive at the time.”
“He said he might as well have been dead. You took his job away, and then you must have put a curse on the NASDAQ to finish him off.”
Would that I had the power, Sally thought, thinking that it would be nice to turn Ellen into a lizard. Or maybe a snail.
“You didn’t believe any of that, did you?” she said.
“What I believe or don’t believe doesn’t matter. Harold believed it. And look what happened to him.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“That’s what I’d say if I were you, too.”
Sally had taken about all Ellen’s guff she could stand, and she thought she had learned just about everything from the note. So she said, “Ellen, I know you don’t like me, and I have a feeling you never will. But I’m the department chair, and you’re not.” Sally hated to steal from Chevy Chase, but it was too good a line to pass up. “You might outlast me, but I don’t plan to leave the department anytime soon. In fact, I plan to be at your retirement party to celebrate your leaving. If you don’t like that idea, then maybe it’s time for you to find another place to teach.”
“You can’t scare me away,” Ellen said, but her voice wavered a bit.
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just stating the facts.”
“Good. Because I’m not scared. I’ll be there to teach my classes in the morning.”
“See that you are,” Sally said, and hung up the phone.
The call hadn’t made her feel any better, and now that she’d had a little time to think it over, she thought she could have handled things better. She’d let Ellen get under her skin, and she was sorry about that.
Still, she’d found out what she wanted to know, or she had if Ellen had been telling the truth about the note. Harold Curtin had actually gone to witch meetings to find out ways to torment Sally. If that didn’t prove he was crazy, nothing would.
But it didn’t help very much with finding out who’d killed him. It was just another piece of a puzzle that still needed a lot of assembly before it looked like anything recognizable.
As far as Sally was concerned, putting the rest of the pieces in their proper places was a job for Lieutenant Weems.
As for Sally, she was going to read a good book.
One without witches.
26
Sally’s secret vice, not counting the Hershey bars, was reading what she considered trashy fiction.
Earlier in her career, she had thought that as an English teacher, she should spend her leisure time reading great works of literature. Something by Henry James, perhaps, or Herman Melville.
But in graduate school she had read quite a few of James’s novels. She’d read several of them, including The Wings of the Dove, more than once. She had even read The Ambassadors twice. She thought that was enough.
She loved Moby Dick, and she had taken a course in Melville. While reading novels like Mardi and The Confidence Man, she’d been impressed with Melville’s intellect but not his storytelling. So while she’d reread Moby Dick several times, she hadn’t read any other Melville since her college days.
What she’d discovered was that she needed something to relax her, and trashy books seemed to work. She was more likely to read Peyton Place than War and Peace, more likely to read something by Olivia Goldsmith than anything by Proust.
Tonight she was reading a historical novel by Frank Yerby that she’d found in a used-book store. She didn’t think anybody read Yerby anymore, but he’d sold a lot of books in his time, and she was enjoying the book, in spite of Lola, who was being annoying.
Whenever Sally read, Lola would climb in her lap, trying to distract her, and when she succeeded in doing that, she would squirm around, demanding attention.
Sally didn’t mind giving the attention, but she also wanted to read, so the attention never lasted long enough to suit Lola, who would then climb up on the back of the chair or couch where Sally was reading and paw at Sally’s hair or try to get on her shoulder.
Now she was draped over the back of the chair, attempting to work her way onto a shoulder, when the doorbell rang.
Lola hated the doorbell. Its ring announced that someone was arriving, and Lola didn’t like strangers. For that matter she didn’t like people with whom she was familiar. She didn’t like anyone at all, except Sally. And Sally wasn’t sure even that was true all the time.
So before the sound of the bell had died away, Lola was gone. Anyone witnessing her departure might have thought that she was indeed a witch’s familiar, as she didn’t so much depart as vanish into thin air. One second she was there, and the next she was gone, almost as if she were some kind of digital special effect. Sally knew that she would be under the bed, sulking until whoever was at the door had gone away.
Sally didn’t particularly want to be disturbed, but she went to the door and looked through the peephole. It was dark, and the porch light wasn’t on, but she could make out Jennifer and Sherm Jackson standing there.
They were about the last people she would have expected to see, given the events of the previous evening. Wondering what they could possibly want, Sally opened the door, without taking off the safety chain. She didn’t want to get whacked by an anti-witchcraft sign.
“Can I help you?” she said, speaking through the crack between the door and the frame.
Jennifer Jackson stood in front of her husband. Her eyes were not as bright as they had been the previous evening, and her hair was lank and stringy as if it hadn’t been washed lately. And Sally was sure it hadn’t.
“We have to talk to you,” Jennifer said in a low, dull voice.
Sally didn’t want to talk to Jennifer or to Sherm or to the both of them together. She had nothing to say to either of them.
“It’s important,” Jennifer said when Sally hesitated. “Can we come in?”
Sally thought that nobody knew the difference between can and may these days. And what’s more, nobody cared, if you didn’t count a few old-fogy English teachers. And everyone knew they didn’t count.
“It’s really important for us to talk to you,” Jennifer said. “Please.”
Sally could
never resist a sincere plea. Sally didn’t see any signs, and there was no one else standing outside to take part in some kind of evil home invasion. So even though Jennifer’s words didn’t sound entirely heartfelt, Sally said, “Just a second” and closed the door to take off the chain.
When she opened the door again, Jennifer grabbed the edge with both hands and slammed it back into Sally’s face.
The door smashed into Sally’s forehead with a wood-solid smack and knocked Sally backward. She was stunned and couldn’t do a thing do stop Jennifer and Sherm from shouldering their way into the house.
“Close the door, Sherm,” Jennifer said. “Lock it. Then close the shutters.”
Sherm did as he was told. Sally could see that he was holding something in his hand, but her eyes were watering and her vision was blurry, so she couldn’t make out what it was.
She could see what Jennifer was holding all too well, however: a very large knife with a long silvery blade that was pointed right at Sally’s midsection.
Sally’s head was throbbing, and she could feel a knot starting to form right in the middle of her forehead. She was sure that Jennifer didn’t care at all about the knot except to be pleased about having caused it.
“I want you and Sherm to get out right now,” Sally said. Her voice was a little unsteady, but not because she was afraid. She was still a little shaken by the blow on the head. “If you leave now, I promise I won’t file charges.”
Jennifer jabbed at her with the knife, and Sally stepped back a couple of paces.
Jennifer said, “We know what your promises are worth, witch. And we’re not worried about you filing any charges. Turn around and go into the living room.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
Jennifer jabbed at her with the knife again. Sally thought that she might be able to grab it, but if she did, her hands would be badly cut. She wasn’t quite that desperate yet.
“Turn around,” Jennifer repeated.
Sally turned, thinking that she could make a break for the bedroom, where the Ladysmith was in the closet. She wished that she hadn’t been so safety conscious that she’d made sure the cartridges weren’t with the pistol.
But it wouldn’t have mattered. Almost as soon as she turned, Sherm’s arm snaked around her neck. He jerked it tight, cutting of Sally’s air supply.
“Give me the tape,” Jennifer said.
Sally heard something hit the floor, maybe the tape. There was silence as Sally tried to breathe, and then she heard a tearing noise.
Sherm moved a little to the side, and Jennifer pulled Sally’s arms behind her, putting the wrists together and wrapping them with duct tape.
Sally struggled as hard as she could, but there wasn’t much she could do against Sherm. Every movement she made just took a little more of what air she had left in her lungs. Not enough was left to make a struggle worthwhile.
A hand grabbed Sally’s ankle, and Sally kicked backward. Her foot connected with something, but not hard enough to do much damage.
Jennifer didn’t like it, however.
“Witch!” she said.
She dropped down to the floor, forced Sally’s feet together, and whipped the duct tape around the ankles.
“Drag her to a chair,” Jennifer said, and Sherm complied, dragging Sally along as if she were a sack of potatoes.
He didn’t put her in a chair. He dropped her on the couch. Sally fell on her side and rolled to the floor, taking in deep gulps of air. Her head, already throbbing, thunked the coffee table.
“I said chair, you idiot,” Jennifer told Sherm.
Sherm slid his hands under Sally’s armpits and lifted her into a chair with arms on both sides. She started to slither to the floor, but Jennifer was there with the knife. She pressed the point up under Sally’s chin.
“No you don’t,” she said.
Sally didn’t, and Jennifer removed the knife.
Sally said, “You’re crazy.”
“Not in the least,” Jennifer said. “You’re the crazy one. You’re a witch.”
“That’s not true. You’re just stupid if you believe that.”
Jennifer smiled. “I’m stupid? I’m not the one sitting there with duct tape on my wrists and ankles, am I? I guess we know who’s stupid, don’t we, Sherm.”
Sherm nodded.
Jennifer turned grim again. “You’ve really caused a lot of trouble, you know that, witch?”
Sally’s head hurt, and she had no idea what Jennifer was talking about.
“I’m not a witch, and I haven’t caused you any trouble.”
“You think being hauled off to jail and questioned isn’t trouble? You think having your reputation in the community destroyed isn’t trouble?”
Sally was catching on now. She said, “I’m not the one who told the police you were at Harold Curtin’s apartment the night he was killed.”
“Ha. If you weren’t, how did you know we were there? How did you know someone even told the police?”
Sally just shook her head. She didn’t feel like explaining, and she knew Jennifer wouldn’t believe her if she tried.
“I’m sorry it happened. I was questioned by the police, too, so I know what it’s like. Now let me go and get out of my house.”
“Oh, you’re not going to get out of it that easy,” Jennifer said.
Easily, Sally thought. “I’ve said I was sorry. What else do you want to do to me? You’ve already committed at least two felonies since you got here.”
“You’re going to suffer for your crimes,” Jennifer said, brandishing the knife. “Do you know what that means?”
“That you’re going keep on talking?”
Jennifer gave Sally an odd look.
“Do you think this is funny?” she asked.
“Not in the least.”
“Well, good. Because it’s not. You are reprobate. Do you know what that means?”
“I’ve never heard the word used that way before, so I’m afraid not. But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Yes, I am. It means that you’re foreordained to damnation.”
“Now you’re the one who’s being funny.”
Jennifer handed Sherm the knife. He took it and let his hand drop to his side. Jennifer stepped up to Sally and slapped her face.
Sally’s head snapped to the side. She felt her face sting and grow warm where Jennifer’s hand struck her.
“That’s another felony,” she said.
“And that’s not the end of it,” Jennifer said. “Do you know the Bible?”
“I know what it is, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s not what I mean at all. To know the Bible means that you’re familiar with the scriptures. Are you familiar with them?”
“Some of them,” Sally said. “‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’ is one I remember.”
Jennifer’s grim look turned pious.
“The Devil can quote scripture to his purpose, and you’re in league with the Devil for certain and sure.”
“I suppose you had another scripture in mind.”
“Yes, we did. Didn’t we, Sherm?”
Sally thought that Sherm might actually say something that time, but he didn’t. He just nodded. He had a vacant look, as if he were thinking about something else, such as how to calculate the quarterly payments on an auto insurance policy with comprehensive coverage and a hundred-dollar deductible.
“We were thinking of Exodus twenty-two, eighteen,” Jennifer said. “Do you know that one?”
“Not off the top of my head.”
“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ I’m sure you’ve heard it.”
For the first time since Jennifer and Sherm had burst into her house, Sally felt a twinge of fear.
The knife hadn’t scared her at first because she didn’t think Jennifer would kill her with it, but looking at it now, dangling from the golem-like Sherm’s hand, Sally changed
her mind. Jennifer could kill her. Or Sherm would do it if Jennifer asked him to do it.
Jennifer followed Sally’s gaze. She smiled a thin smile.
“You don’t have to worry about the knife. We’re not going to use a knife. That’s not how witches are killed.”
Sally had a terrible feeling that she knew what Jennifer had in mind, but she had to ask.
“How do you plan to do it, then?”
“You should know. It happened to your ancestor, and it’s going to happen to you.”
“Sarah Good wasn’t my ancestor,” Sally said. She was getting tired of making the same explanation again and again. “She was my husband’s ancestor, so I’m not related to her by blood. And she was no more a witch than I am.”
“She was condemned to death, and they hung her.”
“Hanged,” Sally said.
Jennifer slapped her again.
“I always hated it when English teachers corrected me in school. I don’t like it any better now. And it doesn’t matter what word I use because the end result is going to be the same.”
Sally thought about telling her that end result was redundant. But she didn’t think getting slapped again would be worth it.
Jennifer smiled at her. It was a horrible smile.
“Go get the rope, Sherm,” she said.
27
Seepy Benton put aside his Hebrew lesson.
At one time he had embraced his Native American heritage, identifying with his Indian ancestors, studying their ways, and learning a great deal about them and himself in the process. He had long benefited from meditation, and he had gone so far as to build an authentic sweat lodge in his back yard.
But after a few years, he still felt that there was something lacking in his life. That was when he had begun to explore the Jewish side of his heritage. He had discovered an instant connection with Jewish beliefs, and he was almost willing to accept the idea that the Native Americans were the Lost Tribe of Israel.
He soon found himself entering fully into the Jewish faith, and he was learning Hebrew so that he could read Torah in the original language. He planned eventually to learn Aramaic, as well, but that was a project that might well be years in the future.
