Abigail clenched her fists remembering the witnesses who were only too willing to spread their evil and consign Rebecca to her dark fate. Goodwife Turner stood before the magistrates claiming that after Rebecca redressed her husband for allowing his pigs to destroy her garden, the man died. Edward Putnam claimed his niece experienced a fit after passing Rebecca on the road. Henry Kenney could not breathe properly because he stood near Rebecca after the Sabbath Meeting.
Reverend Parris halted the examination until a panel of women were able to inspect Rebecca's body for signs of the devil. Abigail was one of the panel. In vain did she protest, claiming the marks on Rebecca's body were natural growths typical of any aged person. When it was clear that Rebecca was too tired to answer any more questions, she was taken to Salem jail where she waited for three months until her trial. Although twenty citizens, Abigail among them, signed a testimonial to her character, the Chief Justice ordered the trial to begin.
Anne Putnam was her greatest nemesis. She testified that Rebecca had killed six children. Sarah Turner once again told the story of her husband. The girls' ranks had swelled. Even so, the jury, impressed by Rebecca's good works and character, found her innocent. The afflicted girls and several others in the court made such an outcry that the Chief Justice ordered the jury back to reconsider. Rebecca, heavily manacled and bound with ropes was brought, once again to the courtroom. This time the verdict came back guilty as charged. Rebecca was sentenced to be hanged.
Abigail could not bring herself to accept the salacious charge. She wept openly and if it were not for John escorting her from the room and forbidding her to endanger her children by association, she would have objected despite the consequences. Instead she kept to her house, saying little, and with swollen eyes went about the business of caring for her family.
John continued to keep a close eye on her during the long weeks that Rebecca waited to be hanged. He hired men for the fields and stayed close to the house, keeping to his study, gently tending to his daughters and accompanying Abigail on visits to the sick. She resented his attention. It prevented her from her work, from gathering the ingredients and working the potions and spells that would remove all focus from her own family.
She glanced at her husband. "Your presence serves no purpose here, John."
He wouldn't look at her, staring instead straight ahead, fortified by the sight of his children running, carefree, in the distance. "I disagree."
"We should leave this place." It was the first time she had expressed such a sentiment. She had no hope of his agreeing, but she said it all the same.
This time John March did look at his wife, bewilderment and hurt evident in his eyes. Once again the thought crossed his mind that even though they had shared a home and a bed for ten years he didn't really know this woman. He had never known her. What he believed to be Christian piety, the stillness that was uniquely hers, the thoughtful quality of her speech, the way she pondered a question and rarely offered up an opinion, wasn't reverence at all. It was something else, a hidden, private part of her past that he neither understood nor wanted knowledge of. Abigail was a mystery to him. The more time he spent recalling her behavior, the more he realized that she rarely volunteered the thoughts. Her popularity in Salem was due to her extraordinary knowledge of healing as well as her ability to spin the wool that was the staple of every family. She had no friends, with the exception of Rebecca Nurse and Nathanial Burke, and she did not gossip.
To his shame, John now realized he had spoken for Abigail precipitously, with no knowledge of her family background, for one reason only: because he'd burned for her, and the only acceptable release for such longing was marriage. He'd wanted her from the very moment she'd stepped into his mother's sitting room. She was delicate and beautiful and her eyes, those startling, unusual eyes, pulled at him.
John knew in his own mind that Abigail was still beautiful, but he no longer saw it. 'T'was strange how a person's appearance, after a short time, receded into something less important, fading before the strength and weakness of ones nature. Abigail was who she was, his wife, the mother of his children. No longer was he struck by the symmetry of her face and figure. She was simply recognizable to him as Abigail. Because men did not discuss such things he was unaware if his feelings were shared or uniquely his and it confused him. Abigail was dear to his heart. He was responsible for her and found a certain measure of comfort in her company. But he no longer ached for her and if he faced the truth squarely, she had tried him sorely these past months. Now, this preposterous suggestion.
"This is our home, Abigail. My family is here. I am a selectman in the town. We have land and a standing in the community. Where would we go?"
She didn't expect him to agree. John would never take such a risk. She longed to tell him of the events that lay ahead and that her sleep was filled with disturbing visions, their probable future. But to do so would require a leap of faith, a stretch of the mind and imagination that was impossible for him. John March was a man of his time and place. Abigail knew she must bear the burden alone even though it was only a matter of time that the long nose of Reverend Parris would point in their direction.
Chapter 24
Detective Mike Costello sat at the Hillyard's kitchen table, his mug of coffee cooling in front of him. Scott and Penny sat opposite him, eyes haunted, faces gaunt, as far away from each other as the round table permitted. He had seen plenty of divorced couples but never one so obviously and rigidly separated. In the silent kitchen every sound was exaggerated, the occasional, random thump of the icemaker, the gurgle of the brewing coffee, the steady hum of the dishwasher. He cleared his throat. "I know you've already told me everything you think you remember, and I realize going through it again is painful, but the details are important. Every day you'll remember something new and, eventually, that something will lead us to Holly."
"Every day?" Scott's voice was thick and raw. "How long do you think this will take?"
Mike Costello's cool gaze assessed Scott Hillyard. He knew they were the same age but there the resemblance ended. The doctor was a townie, a descendent of one of the original settlers. On the surface, he had it made, good looks, plenty of money, and an important profession that assured he would never see an unemployment line. Yet, here he was, divorced, his son dead of natural causes and his daughter missing while Mike went home to Molly, Mikey Junior and Vinny. Not for all the blue blood in Salem would he trade his circumstances for the man sitting beside him. "I have no way of knowing that," he said. "We'll work together and see what happens." He turned on his tape recorder and smiled at Penny Hillyard. "Once again, Mrs. Hillyard, can you tell me what happened the afternoon Holly disappeared?"
Penny wet her lips. "Please call me Penny."
"Okay, Penny." Mike was known for his patience. "Go ahead."
"We had a lovely day. She wanted to make hot dogs." She glanced at Scott. "Her dad doesn't like her to eat them, so it's kind of a treat for her. I don't allow her to eat them often, though."
"I understand."
"She told me about the house party at the Summers and how she'd dressed up in Deborah's clothes. Then she said she wanted to go home early because she had homework. I drove her home and she ran inside. That's it."
"Let's go over this last part again," said the detective. "You said she ran inside, but the first time you gave your report, you said she used her key."
"The door is always locked," Scott interjected, "even when I'm home. She would have to use her key."
"Are you in the habit of allowing her to stay alone?"
"Oh no," Penny replied. "I don't and Scott would never leave her alone."
"Is that correct, Dr. Hillyard?"
"Not entirely," he admitted. "I run early in the morning. Most of the time Holly is still sleeping."
"Does anyone know your schedule?"
"My mother and a neighbor, Maggie McBride. Sometimes we meet and run together."
"Pre-arranged?" asked Costello.
"Anyone else?"
"Probably. Anyone who gets up early and looks out the window."
Ignoring the impatience in Hillyard's voice, he directed his attention back to Penny. "When you dropped her off that day did you know Dr. Hillyard wasn't in the house?"
"No. I wouldn't have left her if he wasn't home. She unlocked the door and I waited until she came out again and waved. It's our signal that everything's okay." Her voice broke. "I didn't know."
"Where were you at four o'clock, Dr. Hillyard?"
"Grocery shopping. Penny doesn't usually bring Holly home until six o'clock. I thought I had two hours."
"When did you first try and contact your wife?"
"Ex-wife."
"Sorry. When did you first try and contact your ex-wife as to Holly's whereabouts?"
"About eight o'clock."
"You waited two hours before calling, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you call sooner?"
"Penny isn't always punctual."
"Would you agree to that, Mrs. Hill—, Penny?"
She nodded.
"Dr. Hillyard, how often did you call Penny before she answered?"
"I called three more times, at nine, ten and eleven. She answered my last call."
"Where were you that evening, Penny?"
Her cheeks were bright red. "I attended an AA meeting and then went out for coffee with my sponsor. I turned off my phone during the meeting and forgot to turn it back on. I do that sometimes."
Mike smiled. "We all do. There's no crime in that."
"Is there anything we should be doing?" Scott asked.
It was the inevitable question. Mike expected it. "We've questioned nearly everyone on the list you made up. We'll finish that today. If you can think of anyone else, it would be helpful, any friend or acquaintance. Try and look through Holly's eyes. Why would she give her mother the okay when you weren't home? Was there a reason, other than schoolwork, why she wanted to come home early? Remember, the solution is always in the details. Meanwhile, my advice is to go about your business. I realize that's easier said than done. Be sure you have answer machines on at all times. It's possible that someone could come through with a ransom request."
"Can we make a formal appeal on the news?" Penny asked. "I've seen people do that."
"That's usually our last resort. We've found that it brings out all the crazies. Sightings are reported everywhere and we have to follow up, no matter how wild the claim. It stretches our resources and leaves us shorthanded. But, we'll explore that option if we have to. Don't give up, Penny. We still have a few strategies left."
"Like what?" Scott had researched the statistics on child snatching. He wasn't as easily placated as Penny.
"I'd like to try and convince your neighbor to help us."
Scott frowned. "I beg your pardon."
"Maggie McBride, your running partner, has had a great deal of success in profiling kidnappers."
"I don't understand." Penny's small pixie face was pinched with confusion. "Is Maggie a police officer?"
"She's a clairvoyant, and unlike the ones on the Sci-Fi channel on television, a legitimate one."
"How can a clairvoyant be legitimate?"
"I understand your skepticism, Dr. Hillyard, and normally I would share it. But Ms. McBride checks out. She's the real thing. However, that's beside the point. The problem is, she's unwilling."
Penny gasped. "I don't believe it. Maggie is my friend. She adores Holly."
"I've spoken to her and, as it stands, her position is one of noninvolvement."
"I'll talk to her," said Penny. "She'll do it if I ask her."
"You'll do nothing of the kind." Scott made eye contact with his ex-wife for the first time since Mike Costello sat down at the table.
Penny's cheeks flamed. "I beg your pardon?"
"Hocus pocus isn't going to help Holly."
"It can't hurt," she shot back.
"Haven't we had enough holistic, supernatural bullshit to take us through this lifetime?"
"That's unfair."
"No, Penny. What's unfair is we're the one in a million couple who managed to lose both of our children in unrelated incidents."
Mike rose and pushed in his chair. "This is a difficult time for both of you. It isn't unusual to place blame and attack each other. But it serves no purpose. Obviously I won't contact Ms. McBride again over your objections, Dr. Hillyard, but I can't stop Penny if that's what she wants. I suggest you get together on the same page. That's the best way to help your daughter."
In silence they watched him leave.
"You're the one who wasn't home," she said woodenly.
"You dropped her off two hours early without even a phone call to let me know, all because of a stupid meeting."
"You suggested I attend those stupid meetings."
"Costello's right. This is pointless."
"Why don't you want Maggie involved?"
"This has nothing to do with Maggie. I want facts, not magic, not someone looking into a crystal ball and feeling that she knows who has Holly."
"You heard him. Maggie is successful."
"What does that mean, Penny? Just what in the hell does that mean?"
Her raisin dark eyes were fixed on his face. "I suppose it means that she finds kidnapped children?"
"It means nothing of the sort. It means she profiles the kidnapper."
"I don't understand."
"She tells the police what kind of person they're looking for. It helps them narrow the search. I've read the statistics. Unless the victim is taken by one of his parents, chances are slim."
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
He stared at her, at the pale unhealthy color of her skin and the pinched look around her eyes. She already looked like a corpse. What was the point in destroying her completely? "Nothing," he said. "It means nothing at all. Talk to Maggie if it makes you feel better. Just leave me out of it. I'm going to the office and sort through things that can't wait. Then I'll lie down for half an hour and try to sleep. I can't think anymore."
"Scott." Her voice stopped him in the hall. "This isn't my fault."
"No, of course not."
"I'm going to talk to Maggie."
"Suit yourself."
Later, alone in his room with the shades pulled against the light, he thought through the events of the morning. Maggie McBride was a clairvoyant. She'd told him she'd worked in law enforcement, but a clairvoyant. One of those crazies on television who sees ghosts in every shadow and predicts the end of the world. Who would have thought? If someone had asked him yesterday if he knew Maggie, he would have answered a definitive, yes. But, he didn't know her at all. She wasn't the straightforward, free-thinking, independent woman who shared many of his interests, who could give back with the same spunk and in similar spirit with which she could take, and who had an unusual hobby, herbal remedies. She was a clairvoyant. She believed in spirits and magic and reading people's minds. She was like Penny. What was he thinking? More to the point, what was wrong with him that he could be attracted to the same kind of woman he'd divorced?
Penny had confidence in her. Not that Penny's vote would hold any weight with him. Quite the opposite. But if she wanted Maggie's help, so be it. She was her own agent. He would have none of it. Actually, he didn't have much faith in the police either. They were over-extended and, if Mike Costello was typical of the breed, fairly callus. Under other circumstances, he wouldn't have blamed him. How many cases went unsolved? How many children were found dead? He would conduct his own investigation. He knew Holly better than anyone. He was her father, her protector. If she was still alive—he pushed the unacceptable possibility away, he would find her.
Down the street, Mike Costello was just leaving the Summers' residence. Wayne had given him a complete statement and a different perspective of the victim. Holly Hillyard wasn't a shrinking violet. She was outspoken and intelligent, opinionated and
skeptical, not exactly the type of child who would willingly go alone with, or be intimidated by, a stranger. That narrowed down the possibilities considerably. Her abductor was someone she knew well or she'd taken off somewhere, suffered an accident and was either injured or dead.
Costello removed the picture of Holly Hillyard from his pocket and looked at it. Cute kid. He'd seen too many pictures of cute kids, unusual kids, kids who'd been taught not to go with strangers. What kind of person would steal a child? He thought of Maggie McBride. She would know and, more than likely, as was usually the case, it would be someone he should have suspected all along, someone obviously odd and disenfranchised, someone so obvious that he would berate himself for weeks when it was all over.
* * *
Maggie, alone in her living room, her eyes open saw nothing but the past.
* * *
Salem, Massachusetts, 1692
Jane Jacobs carried twins. Abigail blamed herself for not realizing sooner although the circumstances had prevented it. Jane was a large woman and the babies sat one on top of the other. The first, a girl, small but healthy with strong lungs, was already sleeping in the cradle beside the bed. But the second refused to come. The mother was exhausted from pushing. Abigail knew she should bleed her, but Jane had already lost a great deal of blood. Once again, the woman's belly tightened and the muscle rose, spasmed and fought to rid her of the second infant.
Abigail placed her hand on the rippling mountain of a stomach and pressed down. "One more time, Jane. Bear down. You must bear down."
With a mighty effort, Jane drew breath and strained until the force of the contraction had passed.
"I can't," the woman sobbed. "T'is too much."
Abigail smoothed the sweat-soaked hair back from the woman's brow. "You have done well, Jane Jacobs. A fine daughter is sleeping in her cradle. This will be over soon and you will sleep as long as you wish. But, in this you have no choice. The child will be born and 't'is you who must do the work. Take a moment and catch your breath before the next pain comes."
Witch Woman Page 21
