by Julia French
“All right! I won’t give your husband what he’s got coming to him-but only for your sake—and I’ll do the spell on the dead folks, but if it doesn’t work I’ll take care of Joshua my own way and you can’t raise your voice against it.”
She let go of the amulet chain and it coiled into the hollow of her throat, a slim silver snake. “It’s a deal. Your spell will work, you’ll see. There’s always a better way.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Who should he dispose of first, the bitch or the redneck? The raven had told him everything he needed to know, and it was up to him. All he had to do was act on the knowledge.
Iskus yawned and rolled over on Joshua’s lap, the mismatched ruby eyes peering up at him myopically, and he scratched the creature’s fly-wing-paved belly as he thought. What was it about the woman that drew his thoughts like a magnet? It was tempting to set aside an afternoon to dissect flesh, nerve, and sinew to see what it was inside her that drew him to her so strongly. On the other hand, the hillbilly represented a serious threat not only to his plans, but to his safety. Twice the redneck had turned his spells back from their intended targets with unpleasant results, and the psychic guillotine in the basement had failed to frighten him to death as it had been meant to. How this self-taught child of nature and his companion had guessed his plans he didn’t know, but it was crystal clear that the pair were searching for the same thing he was-namely, the soul of Sevilla Johnston, one of the most powerful witches of her day.
His priorities, he decided, were to take Sevilla’s soul into his possession before his rivals did, and after that remove the mountain man from the picture permanently. Then, third…third…that task could take a while. Joshua felt a slow seductive warmth spreading in his groin. The pungent reek of urine filled the air. Cursing, he flung Iskus off his lap and stalked into the bathroom. The next time he conjured up a familiar, he’d damn well make sure it was housebroken.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rachel’s back and arms ached and her hair had gone gray from a fine film of dust. It had been almost too easy to gain access to the archives at the Yarwich Historical Society. All she’d had to do was flash her Regular Chronicle press badge, murmur something about “research” and the clerk had been only too glad to usher her into the sub-basement where their records were stored. The search itself was proving a lot tougher. She’d had to make her way along the winding corridors of gray utility bookcases and stacks of cardboard boxes, deciphering the identifying labels on each box by the flickering fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Finally, she had located the right time period, but after two hours of poring over old papers and pieces of old papers she had come up empty.
It was painfully apparent to her that once a scrap of paper was twenty-five years old it automatically became “historic” no matter if it was a handwritten copy of an election speech or a city alderman’s grocery list scribbled on the back of a dinner napkin. Several times she had been fooled by official-looking papers which turned out to be an inventory of real estate holdings, the guest list for a wedding which took place in August, 1773, and a roster of the founding members of the long-defunct Yarwich Normal College.
The Society clerk had explained to her that their ongoing project of preserving the city records online hadn’t progressed very far. Funding was scarce, she said, and not many people were willing to volunteer their precious free time to scan, proofread, and post the images online. Some documents had been posted, but 95% still languished in storage, and these were the ones which Rachel was piling through and despairing over. The clerk had apologized to her for any missing or damaged material—if this large collection represented those city records which had survived the flood, how many boxes had been here before? “We don’t know what’s left down there,” the angular, spinsterish woman confided. “No one’s ever sorted through everything.”
Rachel flexed her cramped fingers and retracted them into the sleeves of her jacket to warm them. To retard deterioration of the records the sub-basement was kept at 55°, and it was easy to understand why no one wanted to spend time down here. As if to underscore her thought, she noticed a thin line of silvery frost upon the sub-basement wall. The silver line deepened to black and she saw that it wasn’t frost at all, but a foot-long crack in the cement. Tiny ripping noises came from the crack that wasn’t frost as it spread out from both ends like a run in a stocking, and moisture like tears began to ooze out of the opening.
Astounded, she watched as the oozing moisture increased into a trickle of water and then into a steady stream that gushed from the wall with the force of a fire hydrant. The stream splashed dark patterns onto the cardboard boxes within its reach as it marched across the floor. Horrified, she took a step backward, tripping over the box she had been sorting and falling on top of another one, crushing the fragile contents to powder. She scrambled to her feet to see the crack widen into a canyon and the stream turn into a gurgling torrent.
Around her cardboard boxes were disintegrating. Brown and ivory and yellow pages spilled out and sifted to the bottom of the flood, tiling the cement floor like autumn leaves paving the bottom of a creek. The line of inundation crept slowly toward the stairs. The water level was two feet deep, three, four, and the sound of rushing water reached a crescendo. Rachel retreated to the stairs where she watched, transfixed, as the rising tide washed away what she had come to find.
Suddenly there was no water and no crack in the wall. The floor of the sub-basement was dry except for the soggy solidifying masses of what had been history and was now paper mache. Sick at heart, Rachel drooped over the stair railing. She knew there was nothing left in that unidentifiable mush, and there weren’t enough readable records left to paper the bottom of a bird cage. The witch man was nothing if not thorough. There was no way to tell whether Joshua Lambrecht had found what he wanted, but he had made sure that she and True wouldn’t have a chance.
“What a day!” She closed the basement door firmly behind her and faced the clerk. “Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything I could use, but thanks for your help.”
The clerk made a clucking sound. “I’m sorry, dear. Are you coming back tomorrow? We’ll be open from ten to three.”
The last thing she wanted was to show her face here again. “I’m afraid my article is due this evening.”
“Have you checked out our display cases? There’s some fascinating material from way back, before Yarwich was even a town.”
“I don’t think—” Rachel began, but the clerk was already halfway across the room. Rachel followed her across the creaking, footworn floor to the set of glass-covered cases against the wall. A paper map of Yarwich dated 1939 and spotted with red pins was pinned on the wall over the cases. Tuning out the clerk’s spiel, she studied the map on the wall until one word penetrated her consciousness.
“Did you say deaths?”
“Births and christenings and marriages and deaths, they’re all in these books.” The woman patted one of the glass cases, and her hand left a design of interlaced fingers in the dust. “Some of them are quite old. This particular one comes from the old Holy Redeemer parish and dates back to 1707. In 1814 Holy Redeemer amalgamated with Christ the Savior and formed a new church, Christ the Holy Redeemer, which still exists, but their records aren’t as detailed as these.”
Rachel waited, hoping for more.
“If you’re interested in genealogy, Mrs. Jeffries, these parish registers can be a gold mine. The first entry in this one, now,” the clerk jabbed a finger against the glass. “It was penned in 1655.”
An idea dawned. “Would you mind if I looked through it? I promise I’ll be careful.”
The clerk shook out a small steel key from the tinkling bunch at her waist. “These cases are temperature-and humidity-controlled, and everything is quite fragile. Handle with care!”
“Thank you, I will.” With the tip of one finger Rachel lift
ed a corner of the 1655 register. The first page was headed Births in bluish-black fountain pen ink.
“This one comes from the Corpus Christi Church, which merged with Saint Celia’s Episcopal in 1902.”
Rachel made an interested sound. “There aren’t any deaths in here.”
“Not every parish kept records of everything. It depended upon the diligence of the individual clergyman.”
“What about that one?” Rachel indicated the register next to Holy Redeemer.
“That’s from Saint Thomas.” The woman caressed the chipped brown cover affectionately. “It doesn’t have a lot in it, but it’s one of our oldest ones.”
“Does it have deaths?” Rachel wondered if her insistence sounded strange, but the clerk was too absorbed in what she was saying to notice.
“It covers all the important things, but over a fairly short time span. Saint Thomas was a little parish and the church itself was disbanded in 1806, but the cemetery remained in use until 1846.”
“You’re very knowledgeable.”
“I’ve worked here for a hundred years.”
Rachel thought of Joshua, True, and what she had learned of magic, and decided the woman was joking. “It must seem that way on Friday afternoons,” she replied and the spinsterish clerk smiled, a spare, starveling gesture that left Rachel with the impression that she didn’t practice it often.
“We have quite a liturgical history in Yarwich, you know. I’ve assisted many researchers over the years, some of them reporters like yourself.”
“You’ve been a big help,” Rachel assured her, turning over the delicate pages of Saint Thomas’s register. Births, baptisms, marriages, and deaths were deposited in slanting columns, and the unsteady dividing lines between them had been drawn by hand.
“The birth of our current mayor’s great great grandmother was recorded here.” The clerk indicated an entry, and Rachel read: Rose Elizabeth Tucker b. Oct. 12 1807 to Elijah and Martha Tucker bap. Oct. 28 1807. In slightly different colored ink the facts of Rose’s life unfolded: m. Increase Williams April 5 1825 son Meserve Matthew b. May 8, 1826. What Rachel sought, however, was older yet. She paged backwards from Rose, reading the crabbed script: …m. January 14,1799…bap. March 1742…d. 1682…
daughter b. 1670…son b. 1668… The next page of the register looked oddly bare because three out of the four columns were blank. Only the last column, the death column, was filled in: Azariah Washington d. 1666, India Morse d. 1666, Judith Hamilton d. 1666, James Hodsworth d. 1666… The entries were written by the same hand in the same ink, and all of the death dates were identical.
Rachel kept her voice calm. “May I have a copy of this page, please?”
“Why would you want it? It isn’t very interesting. As you can see, there aren’t any birth or marriages recorded and the surnames don’t match up with any of the others. These people weren’t members of this parish.”
“I could really use a copy,” she repeated.
“The binding is brittle and the heat and light from the copy machine could damage the pages, but you’re free to write down whatever information you would like.”
“That’s what I’d like to do. May I-?” Rachel lifted the register out of the case, but the clerk took the book smoothly from her hands, guided her to a table and set the register down in front of her with exaggerated care. “When you’re finished, don’t worry about putting it back yourself. That’s what they pay me for. Just leave it on the table.”
I swear I won’t leave any germs on it, Rachel felt like saying. “Would you happen to know the location of Saint Thomas Cemetery? I think I might have relatives there.”
In reply, the clerk walked over to the map on the wall. “These map pins show the locations of churches in this area, past and present. Saint Thomas would be here—oh, the pin must have fallen out! But it’s somewhere in this vicinity, about a mile from the coast. I’ll see if I can find you something more detailed.” She turned and started toward the stairs that led to the basement and the sub-basement.
Rachel approached the map. Her surmise was correct. There was a tiny dimple in the paper where the pin had been. As she examined the road leading to the cemetery a spot of liquid bloomed and smeared the black line of the road. Another drop of invisible rain fell upon Yarwich Harbor, fluffing up a light blue spot upon the darker blue of the water. Then the ink of the map started to run. A highway sagged, and the dots of villages and towns began to blur and disappear under trails of red and green.
Was Joshua or his spy watching her right now? Rachel glanced out the window, but there was no raven. The water spell must have followed her up from the sub-basement to the main floor. She’d better get out before the whole place flooded.
The clerk switched on the light at the top of the stairs and began her descent. “By the way, it wasn’t called Saint Thomas Cemetery. They named it the Green Cove Burying Ground,” she called over her shoulder, and Rachel smiled politely in acknowledgement.
Rachel waited until the clerk had descended the first set of stairs. Then she went from the ruined wall map back to the table. Quickly, quietly, she eased the page of identical death dates away from the weakened binding and wrapped it gently around her leg under her jeans, securing it at the bottom with the edge of her sock.
Priorities, she told her guilty conscience, closing the cover of the register carefully.
Just as she gained the entrance of the building the clerk reached the bottom of the stairs leading to the sub-basement, and her outraged cries pursued Rachel harpy-like as she fled into the street.
* * * *
“Don, I swear I didn’t wreck those boxes.” Three hours of explaining herself to the Yarwich Police Department had left Rachel’s throat raw.
“I know you didn’t! The Historical Society doesn’t want to admit their negligence and they wanted somebody to take the blame. What I don’t understand is why you would use the Yarwich Regular Chronicle to further your own private agenda.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Rachel cleared her throat, and Don groped in his shirt pocket for a peppermint. The wrapper was half-off and there was lint stuck to the candy.
“I like you, Rachel, and I trust you, but today you abused your privilege. You besmirch the name of the YRC when you do something like this.”
She couldn’t believe she’d heard someone say the word “besmirch” out loud. She concentrated on picking the lint off the peppermint.
“I won’t ask why you did it. I don’t want to know. But this can’t happen twice, if you get my drift.”
Rachel looked up from the peppermint. “I understand, Don, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I have your word on that, of course.”
This was worse than the police station. “You have my word,” she promised, ashamed.
“You’re welcome for my not firing you,” he prompted.
“Thank you, Don, and I’m truly sorry. There won’t be a second time.”
“Damn straight there won’t. Now, what do you have for me this week?”
Her new apartment, Joshua, the Sea Queen…she had utterly forgotten about her weekly column and the photos she was supposed to have taken.
Somehow Rachel managed to get out of the office without being fired. She went to the Behemoth and leaned against it, head on her arm, trying to collect herself. The sun had already set, and a melon-colored slice of afterglow lingered along the western horizon. She concentrated upon that color and upon the deepening indigo overhead, and after a few minutes, she felt better.
Today had been a lucky day. She hadn’t gotten arrested or fired, and she had unearthed an important piece of the puzzle. Now she and True had to find the Green Cove Burying Ground, if that name hadn’t changed. Someone had once told her cemeteries were nowhere near as permanent as people liked to believe. They
merged, changed names, were relocated, or built over or abandoned. Sometimes they simply disappeared as the stone markers eroded and sank into the earth. If she and True were lucky, the Green Cove Burying Ground no longer existed and Joshua wouldn’t be able to locate the remains he sought. But if it was still there—
She and True were one step behind Joshua, and they needed to be one step ahead. Yet here she was, watching the sunset as though she had all the time in the world. Angry with herself for the waste, Rachel jerked open the door of the Behemoth, climbed inside, and coaxed the unwilling engine into life.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Look here.” A puff of steam emerged from True’s lips as he said it. He shone the flashlight into the tall grass, rimed with frost, and Rachel made out the fallen remnants of the wrought iron sign: Gr…n Cov…uryi…Gr…nd. The place was larger than either she or True had anticipated. Overgrown weeds and untrimmed trees cast strange, dismal shadows in the moonlight across acres of the dead. Rows upon rows of gravestones standing like crooked, stained teeth revealed themselves as True played the flashlight around. Beyond the multitudes of graves was the deep woods, cool and quiet in the November night. Something swished soundlessly past Rachel’s ear. She felt the wind of its passing, and goosebumps crept up her arms.
It’s a bat, she reasoned. And this is only a graveyard, a storage place for mortal bodies that are no longer needed. There is nothing to be afraid of. Unless you believe in ghosts…
Another swish came past too close to her and she wrapped her arms around her body, telling herself that she was cold. If there are such things as ghosts, why would they hang around in a lonely old cemetery like this? Wouldn’t they want to visit the places they knew and loved in life?
