by Rick Hautala
“How do you know she was around?” Lisa asked sharply, startling Bob, who thought he had been talking to himself.
“She might have been away, visiting relatives or friends for the holiday.”
“Let’s hope so,” Bob said, reaching for his cup again. “Let’s just hope so.” With a groan, he got to his feet and started over to where the men were sifting through the rubble. Lisa remained beside the tree, and Bob was just as glad; she still wasn’t acting all that friendly to him.
He walked over to Granger and mumbled a greeting.
“Well,” the police chief said, straightening up, “it looks as though she wasn’t home. Least, so far we haven’t found a body.” He took a few quick puffs from the cigarette that dangled from his mouth and then let it drop to the ground. He crushed it out with his heel.
“That’s a relief,” Bob said. “There’s more coffee over there.”
“In a bit,” Granger said as he resumed prodding the frozen ashes with a shovel. He reminded Bob of a derelict dump-picker. Watching him, Bob had to hold back his laughter.
He was just turning to go back to Lisa when the toe of his boot struck something under the snow. He glanced down and was about to step over it when he saw the edge of a book sticking out of the snow.
Bob scooped the book up, glancing to see if anyone was looking at him. The book had been burned badly. The flames had sliced it almost neatly in half from top to bottom, leaving a tall, thin volume. He wiped it on his pants leg. On the top of the black leather binding, on the spine, he could barely make out the spidery letters of the gold-stamped title. He brushed the book again with his hand and read: Witchcraft: Forms and Functions.
Reflexively, Bob snatched the book to his chest, covering it with his forearm as he let the shock register and then subside. His heart was pounding in his ears, and his mind was racing wildly over dozens of logical steps to an illogical conclusion. His knees started to feel watery, and there was a bad taste in the back of his mouth that was growing stronger.
Sliding the book into his coat pocket, he walked over to the edge of the cellar and looked down inside. The men were still raking the ashes into piles and then poking through them. Their soot-smeared faces made them look like demons.
Granger was standing in the center of the cellar, where there had been a small, central room. There was just a low doorway in the stone wall now, probably indicating where the root cellar had been. Granger ducked into the little room. Bob started back toward Lisa.
“Hey,” he called. “Check this out.” His voice was low and intense as he eased the burned book out of his pocket.
“Yeah?” Lisa squinted, trying to make out the title.
“This is it,” Bob said assuredly. “This is Julie’s book of magic.” He thumped it authoritatively.
“So.” Lisa was either unimpressed or very successful at masking her reaction. “She had a lot of books like that. I told you, she was always taking out occult books from the library. What does that prove?” She folded her arms across her chest.
Bob tried to keep his voice from sounding too eager. “You don’t think it might add a little weight to my theory? Look.” He flipped through the pages rapidly. “It’s loaded with spells and incantations and stuff.”
“Bob, Julie wasn’t a witch!” Lisa said firmly. “Just because she was into reading that kind of stuff, doesn’t mean she, she practiced it and turned herself into a werewolf!”
“Ssshhh! Will you keep it down?” Bob looked over at the working men to see if they had heard them. He continued to speak in a whisper. “This is just one more coincidence, huh? Is that it?”
Lisa shrugged and looked down at the book. Her teeth ran across her lower lip. She took the book from Bob and flipped through the pages, each one trimmed on the edge with a jagged black line of ash that flaked off and dusted the ground. “I don’t know,” she said distantly, and handed the book back to Bob.
“Yeah, well, I plan to check this out later,” Bob said, sliding it back into his pocket.
“Hey, Wentworth!” Granger’s voice shouted from the cellar. “We’re trying to move this piece of flooring. Are you here to help or to socialize?”
“Be right there,” Bob called. He started back toward the cellar.
“I hope you don’t find anything,” Lisa said weakly. She smiled at Bob as he stood on the edge of the cellar about to jump down inside. It was the first smile he had seen on her face in days, and it warmed him more than the dozen or so cups of coffee he had consumed since the interrupted church service.
“I guess I’ll head on home and get some sleep,” Lisa said.
“Sure. You could use it, I bet.”
“Hey!” one of the men shouted suddenly, making Bob look down into the cellar.
“What the fuck!”
Bob couldn’t see what was going on because of an obstruction, but he heard a loud scrambling sound and then a babble of voices.
“There it goes! Over there!”
“I can’t—son of a bitch!”
Bob raced along the edge of the cellar, peering down, trying to see what was going on. He heard a loud, spitting hiss that sounded like water hitting something hot, but it also brought back an instant memory of the night in the cemetery at Cedar Grove.
“I can’t get it! Jesus!”
“There it goes!”
Bob stood in amazement as he saw the cat, the white cat, scramble up the side of the burned-out cellar and then, with a loud yowling, dash off into the surrounding forest.
“D’you see that?” Granger shouted up to Bob. “D’you see that fucker go?”
Bob stood in silent amazement, unable to move.
“How the hell did that bastard get in here?” one man asked, shaking his head from side to side.
“Christ!” Granger answered. “It couldn’t have been here all along, could it? It would have fried!”
.V.
Bob got up from his chair, took a nervous puff from his cigarette, and began back and forth across the kitchen floor. He kept rubbing the back of his neck to relieve the stiffness he had gotten from bending over while reading. The partially destroyed book he had found at Julie’s house lay open on the counter. Every time his pacing brought him back to the counter, he would glance down at the book. The series of half-sentences was maddening.
He sat back down in his chair, propped his chin on his hands, and started reading again, trying to make sense of the passage. To help complete the thoughts, he started reading aloud.
Trials in medieval Germany in which se
were accused of “going out at night in
wolves), seizing and devouring the bodies
until they were satiated, whereupon they
removing the fur pelts from their waists a
three times counterclockwise (widdersh
Witches were not, of course, rest
wolves. They could assume the shape of
often to travel many miles to a coven
worshipped the Man in Black (that is, S
The fragmentary book continued like this for page after frustrating page. Bob puffed angrily on his cigarette as he pondered what that missing words were. What he could understand fit quite well into the pattern Bob had seen developing, and that made what was left out all the more infuriating. Bob slammed the book shut with a loud thump and resumed his pacing.
Was the pattern really there? he wondered. Or was he forcing it? He walked over to the Christmas tree he had set up in the living room and ran his fingers lightly through the tinsel. It sent glimmers of light dancing.
Maybe Lisa’s right! Maybe he was way off track! What had she said? That paranoia is just seeing coincidences and patterns in life and ascribing them to evil. Evil!
“Just an overactive imagination,” he whispered softly, letting his breath sway the tinsel. “Just having too much time to think.” He was trying to convince himself to drop it all, to start thinking along other, more fruitful lines, but he couldn’t shake the gnawing, creep
y feeling he got whenever he looked at the remains of Julie’s magic book.
So why was he so convinced that it was witchcraft, magic, at work in town? The evidence he had would never stand up in a court. He knew that. It would be thrown out as circumstantial, inadmissible. He snickered to himself and said softly, “Hell, Beth Landry had a better case.”
Walking over to the living-room window, he bent down and looked outside. The sun was shining brightly, glaring off the snow that stretched out to the forest. The sky was a rich, deep blue. The beauty and serenity made Bob’s thoughts seem absolutely ridiculous and even laughable, but he wasn’t laughing.
He thought again of giving Reverend Alder a call. He had missed his appointment with him after the Christmas Eve service because of the fire. He knew he should talk to him. If anyone in Cooper Falls was going to believe his werewolf theory it would have to be the reverend. It was his job to believe in the supernatural.
A sudden, loud knock at his door made him turn around. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when he looked and saw Deputy Thurston standing on the porch. He forced a smile and opened the door.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Thurston said upon entering.
Bob shook his head, forcing himself not to tell the truth. “You guys work even on Christmas Day?” Bob asked.
Thurston didn’t say a word as he walked over to the counter and sat down. “Have to,” he said, zipping his coat open.
Bob walked over to the stove and filled the tea kettle with water. “I didn’t see you out at Julie’s house last night,” Bob said, glancing over his shoulder.
Thurston shrugged. “Had to stay at the office, for calls and such.”
“You missed a big one.”
“I know. I was out there this morning with Roy.”
Bob tensed when Thurston shifted in his chair and his elbow bumped against the burned book. Thurston glanced down and placed his hand lightly on the charred cover.
“So,” Bob blurted out, “you don’t have any time to spend with your family, huh? Out on duty all day?”
Thurston drummed his fingers on the book cover. “I’m not married,” he said.
Somehow, that didn’t surprise Bob. He came over and sat at the counter opposite Thurston. He shook a cigarette from his pack and lit it. He wanted to meet the deputy’s eyes, but he kept looking down at his hands.
“This book’s pretty badly burned,” Thurston said evenly. “You get it out at Julie’s last night?”
Bob nodded and exhaled. He tensed when Thurston flicked the burned edges of the pages, and ashes sprinkled to the counter top.
“Huh,” Thurston said, picking up the book and glancing at the title. “Witchcraft.” He slid the book back toward Bob.
Thurston leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You know, Wentworth, I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you for quite some time. Ever since out little chat last fall, really.”
Bob tried to maintain an even stare at Thurston. “What about?” he asked. In his ears he heard a distracting whooshing sound.
“Ever since Wendy Stillman got killed by that dog or whatever,” Thurston said. “Do you recall that I mentioned that she had had sexual relations before she was killed?”
Bob nodded.
“And you know, it’s been bothering me all this time. I mean, I’ve been wondering if those relations were voluntary.”
Bob shifted uneasily. “You know,” he stammered, “since we spoke then, I, well, I kind of remembered that there was something I forgot to tell you.”
“You forgot?”
Bob told him that he had seen Wendy together with someone else, probably Alan Tate, in the lighting booth the night they had decorated for the Halloween party.
When he finished, Thurston was frowning. “That’s a pretty significant detail to forget, wouldn’t you say?”
Bob shrugged. “I was pretty upset about what had happened to Wendy. It just slipped my mind.”
“Yeah, well, it makes me wonder. And now this Sikes girl. She’s missing.”
“She hasn’t come back yet?” Bob asked, surprised.
Thurston shook his head. “It’s kind of weird, don’t you think? She seems to have vanished like smoke. I was wondering if you might be able to help me out a little.”
“I don’t know,” Bob replied. “I was out there last night at the fire, but I—”
“You forgot what I consider something pretty important relating to Wendy Stillman’s death. I’m wondering if, maybe, you’re forgetting something you know about Julie Sikes, something that might help us figure out what happened to her. You know, usually if someone knows something and doesn’t tell the police, it’s usually because he’s got something he doesn’t want to talk about, something in his past.”
Oh, Jesus! Bob thought.
Thurston’s hand slipped into his coat pocket and produced two pages of photocopied newspaper clippings. With a smooth twist of his wrist, he placed them on the countertop in front of Bob like a winning poker hand.
Bob’s eyes darted over the headlines as a burning lump began to form in his throat.
Thurston said softly, “I thought you might have some idea where this Sikes girl has gone, that’s all. It seems like you knew more about the Stillman girl than you were willing to tell me.”
Bob clenched his fists in his lap. For a flickering moment, he considered hauling back and punching Thurston. The smug self-assurance galled Bob, but he forced his fingers to unclasp slowly.
Too many times, he thought, too many times, I’ve jumped too fast, and it usually makes things look worse.
“I just thought if you saw these newspaper stories, you might, well, jog your memory a bit more. You understand?” Thurston smiled with satisfaction. “Well, you don’t want me to have to come right out and say it, do you?”
“That’s blackmail,” Bob said through clenched teeth.
“I just want you to know that if there’s something you should be telling me, and you don’t—well, you never know whose desk these might end up on.” Thurston rose from his chair and started toward the door, zipping up his coat.
You son of a bitch, Bob thought angrily. He now knew who had told Lisa about his problems with Beth Landry. She must have believed that he was innocent because she had been slightly, not much, but slightly warmer to him. But Bob knew that it would be futile to argue his innocence with Thurston. The man obviously had a grudge against him. The only thing about the whole damn situation that felt good was that Bob had just as strong a dislike for the deputy.
“I’m glad you’re leaving,” Bob said, holding the door for Thurston. “I wouldn’t want to have to ask you to leave.”
Thurston smiled slightly and started toward the cruiser.
.VI.
“Doc Stetson, I’m awfully sorry to be callin’ you on Christmas Day, but I have to talk with you. I’m worried sick about Ned.”
“What’s wrong?” the doctor asked, concern registering in his voice. “Just relax and tell me what the problem is.”
“It’s Ned,” Ellie Simmons blurted out, close to tears. “He ain’t been well at all!” She sniffed loudly.
“Yes?” Doctor Stetson said patiently.
“He don’t look well. He don’t eat right. Lord, he’s losin’ weight and he’s so pale. I swear to God, his eyes are bloodshot bright-red, like he’s, like he’s been taking drugs. Is that it? Could takin’ drugs make him so sick?”
Stetson paused. “Well, I can’t say, not without seeing him first. Why don’t you call my office Monday morning and make an appointment to bring him in?”
“He looks so poorly,” Ellie said, her voice breaking. “He ain’t eating right or nothin’. He stays awake all hours.”
“Yes, Mrs. Simmons. If you’ll make an appointment and then we can—”
“You can’t see him sooner?” she broke in. Her throat tightened.
“Mrs. Simmons, I understand your concern, but I’m quite busy right now. The best thing for you to do is to bring h
im in Monday morning. I’ll check him over. And stop fretting!” he commanded. “You’ll just make yourself sick.”
Ellie nodded her head in agreement as though the doctor was there in the room with her and could see her.
“All right?” Doctor Stetson said.
“Yes, Doctor,” Ellie said softly. “Thanks, and, and Merry Christmas.”
.VII.
Ned smiled down at Julie’s upturned face and combed his fingers through his hair. Her face glowed with an orange dullness in the flickering light of the kerosene lamp. They were deep in the mine-shaft where it was warm and silent.
“Everything will be all right,” Ned whispered, close to her ear. She remained immobile, unblinking, with her eyes fixed on the ceiling of the mine. “Really, it will.”
Ned shifted and lay down beside her, pulling her close. He gently pressed his lips to hers in a long kiss.
“Ohhh, you feel so cold,” he said, pulling away. “Are you warm enough?”
There was no reply. Julie’s gaze was still fixed on the ceiling.
Ned’s fingers hovered over Julie’s face and then slowly moved down to her throat. “Oh, Julie,” he groaned as he began to work on the top button of her blouse. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this.” The button opened, and he ran his hand down to the next one.
“I’ll keep you warm,” he said, opening the last button and spreading her blouse open. Sliding one arm under her shoulders, he lifted her up and started to work the blouse off. All the while, he kissed her cheeks, forehead, lips, and neck. Still holding her away from the musty mattress, he unfastened the catch to her bra and pulled it off with a quick motion. He lowered her back down.
“Oh, Julie,” he moaned, lowering his head and kissing her breast. He glanced up at her motionless face.
“It won’t be like this for long. You can stay here with me for a while and then, pretty soon, I’ll take you to my house. You can stay there with me. I’ll treat you real good.”
