by Lara Parker
“But that’s exactly how I feel, Barnabas. That she has some kind of power over me.”
“Nonsense. None other than you grant her. Promise me you won’t do anything rash. No woman is worth it.”
Tears came into David’s eyes again and he trembled. Barnabas was struck by the boy’s pallor. His lips were whiter than his skin and there was no color in his cheek.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Many more girls will come into your life. Some day you’ll look back on all this and laugh.”
David sighed and shook his head. “She gave me a story she wrote,” he said. “Would you like to see it?”
“Very much.”
“It’s there. On the dresser.”
Barnabas walked over to where a small sheet of paper was lying on top of a bureau. The text was written with a fountain pen in cursive handwriting. He began to read, but after the first lines, he was forced to grab his wrist to keep the hand that held the paper from shaking.
Miranda
There was once a witch girl who lived as a child with the Indians in the forest. Birds sang to her when she passed and trees let down their branches. She was as beautiful as the rising sun, her hair black as raven’s feathers, and her skin like the falling snow. Her eyes were like two silver minnows in a pool. Because she was a witch, she could fly at will, and she sometimes slept in the branches of the trees who protected her.
More than anyone or anything she loved the farm her father had cleared for her in the forest. Young as she was, she whitewashed the boards of the farmhouse and planted a field with rye, dragging a plow roped to her own slender waist. She cleaned the pasture spring of winter weeds so the woodland animals might come to her meadow and drink.
When the time came and Miranda turned eighteen, she was ready to move to her farm with her young husband and child. But the greedy merchants in the town wanted her land. They offered to buy her farm for a goodly sum, but she always refused them. At first they argued that her indenture was not over and she must remain in service. Then they claimed the writing in the book of property was not clear, her name illegible. They called her disrespectful when she argued with them. And they looked on her with disapproval every time she missed a Sunday meeting.
And so they set upon her and called her “witch.” She pleaded her innocence, saying she had never harmed a living soul, but they were deaf to her supplications. The harvest had been ruined by an early frost. One woman had buried five babies at birth. A man’s cow had bloated and died screaming. They said the girl was to blame, that she was a witch. She was tried by the magistrates and sentenced to be hanged.
Her mother was heart-anguished and offered to die in her place. But the townspeople cast the mother into chains. Her lover tried to free her but he was shot by the townspeople and buried without a coffin in a shallow grave. Death was the taste on their tongues.
The girl was placed in the cart and carried to the Hanging Place. As she rode to the gallows, Miranda was given her wee babe to suckle one more time. It fretted and would not be comforted. On the platform she produced a hidden blade and with it slit the child’s throat. Raising its bloody corpse above the heads of the people, she cursed the families of those who had condemned her. “Thou shalt have blood to drink,” she cried, “for all eternity.”
Barnabas dropped the paper on the dresser as though it were aflame. The heat began in his core and rose as far as his fingertips. He struggled to breathe. And all this time he knew he must maintain an outward calm. “I think she is talented,” he said, “and she will make a good writer.” He turned and looked at David. The boy’s beseeching gaze held his, their eyes locked, and a spark of understanding passed between them.
“I have seen her,” he said. “This morning early, near the graveyard. She called me Reverend.”
David frowned. “And was she beautiful?”
“Very beautiful, but her eyes were frightening.”
He heard a car in the drive beneath the window and looked to see who it could be. Red and blue lights circled on the hood. It was the local Collinsport police.
NINETEEN
ROGER STOOD IN THE FOYER red-faced with annoyance. He was smartly dressed in a chestnut suede morning jacket and brocaded vest, but his blue eyes blazed and his upper lip quivered. “These questions are preposterous,” he said to the two policemen who stood just inside the door. Barnabas hesitated on the landing.
“If I understand you correctly, Mr. Collins, you don’t know anything about the girl who died,” said one policeman.
“I sold the property to that woman, Antoinette Harpignies. I’ve never wanted to have anything to do with her or what went on there. I told Sheriff Patterson weeks ago to clear away those degenerates. It was your responsibility.”
“We put up notices. Today’s the day they have to be out.”
“Then you are a day late and a dollar short.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Collins.”
“I also asked my cousin, who has had several opportunities, to convince them to leave, but he has repeatedly neglected to do so. I never wanted a hippie camp anywhere near Collinwood. In my opinion, the family name has been denigrated.”
“Can you explain the fact that the victim was mauled by some kind of animal?”
“Probably a satanic ritual. That’s exactly what I mean. These people are not civilized.”
“So you think it was them who did it.”
“Absolutely. Really, officer, you don’t believe there are still wild beasts in the forest outside of Collinsport.”
“Her neck was—if you’ll excuse the expression—ripped to shreds.”
“And that was what killed her?”
“Yeah. She bled to death.”
Barnabas clung to the banister.
“Well, I have only one thing to say to you, officer. You have my express permission to bulldoze the camp and send those sociopaths somewhere else. My sister can’t sleep at night for fear they’ll burglarize us, looking for something to steal to pay for their drug habits.”
It was time to intervene, but Barnabas stopped when he heard the policeman say, “I’m afraid, Mr. Collins, it’s not that simple. This is a murder charge here. There’s been a violent death. It’s not enough to clear the rabble out and be finished with them. We’ll have to do a thorough investigation.”
“I find the entire situation,” said Roger, “deeply abhorrent.”
Barnabas continued down the stairs and joined the trio in the foyer. “Good day, officers,” he said.
“Barnabas,” said Roger, “there’s been an unfortunate accident. On the property next door. A girl has been murdered.”
“I’m aware of the accident, Roger. I was with Antoinette when she called the ambulance.”
Roger’s face blanched. “You?”
“It was a transient, an unknown vagrant, who attacked the girl. The campers had nothing to do with him. They were all terrified. I’m sorry to hear that she did not survive.”
“And she’s not the only one,” said the other police officer, who had been quiet until now. “Something very suspicious washed up on the beach this morning. We found some human remains. There’s some real hanky-panky going on around here, and we mean to get to the bottom of it.”
“Horrible,” said Roger, turning away.
“But why do you suspect the campers?” asked Barnabas. “I’m sure they are innocent. They simply wanted to spend the summer living in the woods, close to nature. Isn’t that their right? You make unfortunate accusations when you suggest satanic rituals, Roger. You have no proof of such a thing.”
Roger’s gaze was cold. “I cannot believe that you of all people would defend them, Barnabas,” he said.
The first officer spoke up. “What we were looking at here was health violations, and unlawful assembly.”
“But they are not staging any kind of protest—”
“Wait a minute. Let me finish. Anytime a group of more than ten persons gathers together they need a permit.”
; Barnabas knew the policeman was bluffing. He threw his hands in the air. “That’s small town despotism,” he scoffed. “They were camped on private property with the permission of the owner. It’s perfectly legal.”
“We have tourists on the weekends,” offered Roger. “It’s an economic situation as much as anything.”
“Yeah, the camp is a big eyesore,” said the officer, looking weary. “We know they’ve had illegal drugs on the premises, but we’ve been hoping they would take off before there was any trouble. I’ve even had some words with that guy who’s their leader. He out and out told me they wouldn’t leave. That’s contempt of a court order. But all that is beside the point now. Someone is dead.”
“Why didn’t you act sooner?” said Roger, his temper rising. “Then none of this would have happened.”
“All right. Calm down, Mr. Collins. The sheriff has just dispatched a team over there to clear them out,” said the policeman.
Barnabas looked up in surprise. “Clear them out? I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“The sheriff has already given the order. By this evening there won’t be anything left.” The officer looked smug. “The men will be using new riot control tactics. They’ve only just taken a training program. Six weeks, very intensive.”
“Tactics? What tactics? You can’t be serious.”
“Just let any one of them resist and they’ll be in some real trouble. Every one of them will go to jail.”
“Now, just a minute,” said Barnabas. “You’ll not use violence of any kind. Roger, say something.” But Roger only drew himself up in disdain. Barnabas turned back to the policeman. “I won’t allow you to employ precipitous methods that are uncalled for, and could injure innocent people—”
“Cousin Barnabas?”
David appeared at the landing. His face was ashen. “Jackie is at the camp. They won’t hurt her, will they?”
THERE WAS A VICIOUS WIND in the trees. Black branches undulated violently as though enraged, hurling debris into the air. Barnabas’s hands gripped the wheel of the Bentley as he sped down the road with David beside him. The campers would be completely unprepared for this invasion. As soon as Barnabas pulled up behind several patrol wagons and parked, he saw the fire in the woods.
Quickly exiting the Bentley, he approached a policeman inside a squad car who was shouting into a two-way radio. Forcing himself to appear calm, he leaned over and said, “Excuse me, sir, are you the officer responsible for this action?”
The heavyset cop looked up and muttered quickly, “Yeah. Captain Brady here.”
“Captain Brady, this is not necessary. These young people are not involved in any wrongdoing.”
The captain spoke into his popping radio. “Hold on a minute,” then turned to Barnabas. “Who are you?”
“Barnabas Collins. I live just down the road. I know the people camping out on this property, and I can assure you, they are quite peaceful.”
“Oh, yeah? We ran into a lot of resistance,” said the policeman.
“Well, what would you do? They must all be terrified.”
“All I know, Mr., uh, Collins, is we got a wounded officer.” He pushed the toggle on his radio and Barnabas heard it crackle, “They . . . rounded up . . . three . . .”
Seeing it was useless, Barnabas turned and jogged towards the lights of the camp, David at his heels. Two policemen burdened with riot gear brushed past him, knocking Barnabas off balance, and ran ahead. Even before he arrived at the clearing, he heard cries, curses, and sounds of scuffling, and the first thing he saw when he broke through the trees was a huge bonfire and three naked boys handcuffed together in the clearing.
“Oh no,” cried David. “They’re burning everything!”
Canisters lay on the ground spewing yellow smoke. Hysterical campers ran about coughing, grabbing belongings: books, a soup pot, a torn shawl. One girl stood helplessly, her arms hanging at her sides, tears streaming down her face. Police in gas masks threw objects on the flames and entire tents were dragged across the clearing and pitched on the fire like giant moths. The mirrors on the trees flashed brilliant shards of light as pungent smoke exploded and the fire bristled, consuming hammocks, sleeping bags, the makeshift tables, even wildflower bouquets. Barnabas ran for Toni’s tent, which was still intact, and stooped to look inside. The sleeping bag was crumpled in a corner. Her clothes and Jackie’s, as well as other belongings, were strewn about, but the women were nowhere in sight. He caught a glimpse of Toni’s Afghani sack in the back beneath a blanket.
“David,” he called. “Over here.”
The boy appeared, his face reddened. “They’re wrecking it all,” he said. “Do something.”
“Here, take these things and put them in the car.” Eyes stinging, Barnabas crawled back out of the tent, but before he could rise to his feet, something bright and luminous caught his eye. Trays of spilled beads, all the brilliant colors, flashed in the dirt.
The cops carrying objects to the fire seemed to be deformed creatures with heavily padded elbows and knees, their thick belts bristling with chains, stun guns, clubs, and bulging holsters. Their heads were encased in masks that transformed them into giant anteaters, round snouts hanging from leather contraptions, and wide insect-eye visors. Barnabas saw a girl he recognized, Chastity, run to the fire and, risking the flames, scramble forwards to retrieve her notebook. One of the snub-nosed creatures struck her in the shoulder with his club.
Barnabas was galvanized into action. “Hey! What are you doing?” The cop lifted his baton again. “Stop that! Are you insane?” He lunged for the man, jerked him backwards, seized his shoulder in a vise grip, and ripped the mask from his astonished face.
“She hasn’t—what are you? Some kind of beast?” He thrust the policeman away with such savagery the man rolled to the ground. He was leaning over to lift Charity to her feet when a heavy boot connected with his gut. The air in his lungs exploded and he collapsed in the dirt. Colored beads spun under his eyes, and his mouth filled with grit. Shaking his head to clear it, he turned and, through a blurred haze, saw a girl run towards the trees with her guitar. An elephantine monster caught up with her, grabbed the instrument, swung it, and splintered it against a tree trunk. It exploded with a dissonant chord of sound.
Barnabas pulled himself up on all fours; there was a sharp pain in his side, and he gasped for breath. The fire was spitting sparks and reeked of burning cloth. Balloons of flame rose into the air. Through bleary eyes he saw another cop push a young woman towards the dark of the forest. He was fumbling with his belt. Barnabas squinted in recognition, and caught a glimpse of her terrified face before he saw her fall. It was Carolyn!
What happened next was an outburst of fury. One moment Barnabas was straining to rise, the next he was behind the cop with one hand on the back of the gas mask. His fingers dug on the straps and he jerked the man off his feet. He heard the crunch of a shattered nose as the cop collapsed in a heap. He turned to see a policeman coming for him with a club raised over his head, but in a flash the man was on the ground. Barnabas knelt on his chest with one hand on the top of the mask and the other gripping the bulky collar. Rage fueling strength, he ripped open the jacket and exposed the jugular. He leaned in for the kill. Only a look of horror through the goggles stopped him. Releasing the cop with a shudder, he rose to his feet and saw another policeman standing in front of the fire with his pistol drawn.
“Stop right there, buddy,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”
Barnabas blinked. “Put that away,” he said, panting. “I’m not the criminal here.”
“Get your hands in the air.”
Barnabas hesitated, confused as to his next move. The bullets would not be silver. He took a step toward the policeman.
“Halt. Or I’ll shoot.”
Barnabas lurched for the weapon. The gun fired. Rocked by the impact of the bullet, he staggered back, and swayed on his feet, but only for the briefest moment of comprehension. He was not invulnerabl
e. Wrath filled his body and exploded into his limbs. He raised his fist, struck the cop’s hand, and the gun flew from his shattered fingers. Suddenly everything was quiet. He knew he was hit, but he could not feel the wound. The police in the clearing stood aghast, all watching Barnabas, who turned slowly, daring them to move. Slowly, he pulled the keys from the belt of the fallen policeman and unlocked the naked boys. Then he reached for Carolyn, drew Charity to her feet, and turned to the others. “Come with me,” he said. “You’ll be safe.” And he led them toward the road.
Looking around for David, he spotted him coming from the forest with another armload of papers and books. “I got all Toni’s stuff,” called the boy as he headed for the Bentley. Barnabas fumbled beneath his cape where he was bleeding, and he felt a slight twinge. He was about to follow David when he saw Jason standing in the line of handcuffed hippies and walked over to him.
“What happened?” he said. “Have the police lost their minds? What did you do?”
Jason’s eyes blazed with hatred. “Son of a bitch,” he said, and he spat on the ground at Barnabas’s feet. “You’ll be sorry you did this. They got nothin’ on me and as soon as I’m out, I’m coming back, and the Collinses with their high-and-mighty patrician shit better watch their backs.”
“Wait a minute. I had nothing to do with this. I came to stop it.”
Jason leaned in until his face was close to Barnabas and said in a whisper, “I know what you are. I knew as soon as I saw you. You’re a phony. Nothin’ but a big pretender.” A policeman pulled Jason toward the paddy wagon and Barnabas hesitated.
“Just a minute. If you’d give me a chance to explain, you’ll see we are on the same side here—”
“Save it, buddy.”
“I am sorry this happened.”
Jason’s eyes glittered with tears. “They busted up Little Chris’s guitar, man, threw it in the fire. Why’d they have to do that? Sally’s flute. Busted in half. Yeah. Think about it. Why?”
