The Evil Inside (Krewe of Hunters)

by Heather Graham

  “By the house!”

  “I don’t see…” Angela said.

  “The person is gone—she walked around the side.”

  “Why would someone be sneaking around the Rebecca Nurse Homestead?” Angela asked.

  “Good question,” Jenna murmured.

  A car drove up behind them. A woman exited the car and waved to them. “Hi! You’re lucky, I happen to be available. I’m Sandy Halloran, nice to meet you.”

  Jenna and Angela both thanked her profusely for coming out and, before they went farther, made a large donation to the upkeep.

  Jenna had been here several times before, but it had been long ago. It never failed to tug at her heartstrings to think of a woman who had lived and worked in the heat and bitter cold of New England, who had endured childbirth many times, only to die at the end of a rope.

  Angela was fascinated by the homestead, by the sparse furniture, by the hard life lived by seventeenth-century farmers. She listened gravely while their eager guide described Salem Village at the time, the families that constituted it and how family matters and money played into everything. “A lot of people suggested that mold in the wheat might have caused the girls to have hallucinations,” Sandy told them. “I never bought into that theory. Why would only the girls be affected? I think that they started a lie, and perhaps they played it out so well that they believed it themselves. None of us will really know now, will we?”

  Angela and Sandy seemed to be having a good conversation so Jenna slipped outside, walked around the house and looked toward the western side of the property, and the graveyard. She remembered that the old section of the graveyard was closest to the old cart road; it was most probable that Rebecca Nurse’s family had taken her body and brought it home, secretly, of course. Witches were not to lie among consecrated graves, and any of the victims who received a proper burial received it because the love of a family member was stronger than the fear of repercussion.

  Rebecca Nurse, however, most probably would not tarry in the graveyard. She had been a wife and mother.

  Jenna turned back to the house and paused. Made of mist now, and yet clearly there before her, stood the spirit of an old woman. Her dress was severe, fastened to her throat, with only a white collar against the dark blue of her bodice. A cap covered her graying hair; she was wrinkled and withered, but she had beautiful blue-gray eyes that carried centuries of wisdom. She made a hand motion and started toward the graveyard, so Jenna followed.

  Certainly, there was no telling where Rebecca Nurse was really buried. In later times, the family had erected a stone to her memory. The remains of George Jacobs, Sr., another victim of the trials, had been unearthed on the Jacobs property in the 1950s and laid to rest here with great ceremony during the tercentennial. Jenna wondered if the spirit of Rebecca wanted her to honor him here as well, but she didn’t head toward the memorial. She walked instead toward a patch of ground that was devoid of memorial markers, even the fieldstones that denoted the resting places of so many family members.

  Fog swelled through the pines that surrounded the graveyard, and for a moment, Jenna felt as if she’d been whisked back in time and that she and the old woman who had met such a cruel demise stood in a place entirely removed from all others.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Jenna whispered.

  “Look to the young, and those who would be innocent, for they only learn from the voices around them,” the woman said, her voice like the rattling of tree limbs stripped bare of their leaves. “Babes so quickly learn that lies often serve to please, and so they learn to lie. They know not the tragedy of their words. John Proctor whipped his girl, and she had no fits. She found the others, and those who would watch and applaud, and she began again, and yet, I think, I believe, not with malice, yet with fear that what she began to believe was what she must.”

  “Even now, you forgive,” Jenna said. She felt like crying for all those wronged. She didn’t believe that she could have ever known such courage. She reached out toward the specter.

  But the old woman seemed impatient. “Children! They know not what they say. They know not what they say.”

  The trees seemed to shake with the sudden burst of an autumn wind. The fog stirred and rolled and seemed to lift, and when it did, the image of the old woman was gone.

  Jenna stood alone in the graveyard, wondering if she was indeed sane and gifted, or if she created what she saw in her mind. It was always so real, and then so completely vanished.

  She realized then that either the spirit of the long-deceased woman—or the spirit she created in her mind—hadn’t been talking about the past.

  They had yet to interview the boys.

  And, she believed, especially after the words of the ghost, the boys were the key.

  Angela and Sandy emerged from the house, talking animatedly. Jenna realized that Angela would want to see the graveyard, and she was suddenly eager to leave it herself. She wanted to get to the cliff-side spit of land where kids—old and young—hung out. She told herself that they might not come at all—not David and Joshua, anyway—but she was anxious to try there.

  “Sandy is an amazing tour guide,” Angela said. “I’ve so enjoyed discussing the history with her. We’re going to tour the graveyard—”

  Jenna quickly stepped forward to take Sandy’s hand and pump it. “Perhaps another day! Sandy, you were so kind, so wonderful! I know we’ll be back. Soon. Angela, I just realized that we might miss that appointment. We’ve got to go…quickly. Now.”

  “Appointment?” Angela said. “Oh, yes, of course, how could I forget? Sandy, thank you very much.”

  “There’s really so much more to see here. They built what must be an almost perfect reproduction of the Old Meeting House in Salem Village. This is really where it all began. There are other houses—”

  “Thank you! We will see them!” Jenna assured her. Grabbing Angela’s hand, she dragged her back across the property to her car.

  “All right,” Angela said, once they were seated. “What’s going on?”

  “We have to get to the cliff side by the Lexington House.”

  “Yes, we were planning that, but school’s not even out yet.”

  “It will be.”

  “So…”

  “I saw Rebecca Nurse.”

  “I see.”

  “She was a victim of injustice, Angela. I thought I was just listening to her talk about the past—about the girls. But she was trying to help me now. I think an old man from the era was trying to help me at the graveyard in Salem the other night…someone who saw the injustice, and saw that lies created more lies, and people began to believe them, even those who weren’t really involved. Angela, good people were involved all those years ago. This is totally different, we’re living in a different world, and yet, it can all play out the same. People believe what seems to be obvious. And kids are all too easily caught up in playacting. And if you do it long enough, in your mind, it becomes the truth!”

  It cost more than three hundred dollars to get his car back, and though he’d given himself a few stern lectures on being materialistic, Sam was grateful that his beloved Jaguar hadn’t been scratched or dented.

  “Nice ride,” Jackson commented.

  “I do a lot of driving,” Sam said. He saw that Jackson was grinning. “Okay, hell, yeah, I like my car!”

  He told Jackson about his previous meeting with the elder, Goodman Wilson. Jackson listened and said, “He really called himself Goodman Wilson?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Reverting to Pilgrim days, so it seems.”

  “He’s very honest about the fact that they’re a fundamentalist church. No singing, drinking, dancing…and certainly no worship of false idols. But I believed him when he said that their teachings were about peace and that they were strictly nonviolent.”

  “So why did everyone hate Abraham Smith and his family so much?” Jackson asked.

  “I think it is human nature to hate what you
don’t understand. I think that the church tends to be isolated, and that the members keep to themselves. And, probably, what the people knew came from Malachi, who was in the school system. Oh, and Abraham did rail a lot, apparently, about the people who deserved to go to hell—Peter Andres among them. But, since Abraham and Peter are both dead, I don’t think that Abraham killed Peter.” He hesitated, glancing over at Jackson. “Jenna is convinced that the killer dresses up as the Celtic horned god and goes in while in costume and then kills. Says she’s seen it in visions.”

  “What do you think?” Jackson asked him.

  Sam shrugged. He had just met the man beside him, but he knew that Jackson Crow had acquired an exceptional reputation with the bureau before joining Adam Harrison’s special unit.

  “I can’t say that she’s wrong. I don’t know. It would be an easy way to come and go during Halloween—apparently, it’s a popular costume—but Peter Andres was murdered six months ago. Back then they had no more reason to go after Malachi Smith than anyone else.”

  “I thought you said that Abraham Smith hated Peter Andres—wouldn’t the police have questioned Abraham?”

  “I’m sure they would have gone after him if they could have,” Sam said. “Eyewitnesses put him on his own property in Salem while Peter Andres was killed in Andover. Malachi loved to go to the cliff by his house, but he had no corroborating witnesses to vouch he was there when his family was killed. Even if he’d been seen there by any of the other youths in town, I sincerely doubt they would have spoken up for him.”

  They reached the Old Meeting House in Beverly.

  As they exited the car, Jackson said, “Thank God.”

  “Thank God?”

  Jackson looked at him. “That I wasn’t born a Puritan!”

  Sam smiled as they headed toward the door of the church. As it had been before, it was open. They stepped in, and shadows seemed to surround them.

  “Goodman Wilson?” Sam called.

  A man rose from the front pew. He turned to them.

  “Ah, Mr. Hall. You’re back.”

  “With a friend, Goodman Wilson. This is Jackson Crow,” Sam said.

  “How do you do, sir?” Jackson said.

  Goodman Wilson lowered his head. “Welcome to our church.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So,” Wilson said to Sam. “You are still going in circles, hoping that eventually you will go around and around so long, you’ll stumble upon what you’re seeking?”

  Sam smiled. “Something like that.”

  “It sounds like the mysteries of faith, in a way. I wish you God’s blessing on your quest. I don’t know what I can tell you that I didn’t say before.”

  “Well, different day’s job, different memories. I was chatting with Sam here and thought, ‘How could he really know all his members?’ I mean, what about those who have left the church?” Jackson asked.

  “Our congregation is small. I know my members. They are peaceful. I don’t know that anyone would go after the Smith family.” Then Wilson asked in turn, “And if, by some wild chance, someone murdered for Abraham Smith, why would they murder him after?”

  They were good questions, Sam knew. “All right, but you also said that Malachi was a fine boy with a great faith—he just loved music. But many people think he’s a killer. Would it be easier if you just gave us a list of your members?”

  Goodman Wilson once again smiled tolerantly. “Now, you know I will do no such thing. Only a subpoena or warrant can compel me to, and even then it would be under immense protest.”

  “I thought you might want to help us, since it was one of your members and his family last killed,” Sam said.

  “In any way that I could, morally within my own heart, I would do so. But my members are not compelled to tell their neighbors or coworkers that they are members of this church. Faith is silent. It’s in the heart. We are not evangelists. Those who truly seek the Divine Truth will find us.”

  “You know that I’m Malachi’s attorney. Is all of your stalling because he was not a member of your church any longer?” Sam asked directly.

  “You will have to bring the law against me,” Goodman Wilson said. “I’m sorry. Now, I’m sure you will do so, and we will speak again. I am at prayer, so I will bid you good day.”

  “Thank you,” Jackson said.

  When they exited the church, Sam said, “The old bastard!”

  “He expects you back.”

  “Yes, but I’ll have to get a judge to give me a warrant…and he knows I’ll do it, so he’s just stalling for time.”

  “Do you want to take care of that now?”

  “I’ll call my assistant,” Sam said. “I still plan on seeing the councilman and, of course, we have to go have our tarot cards read.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jackson said. “Nothing like a good tarot card reading.”

  When Jenna parked the car, Angela got out and stared at Lexington House. She shivered.

  “Very creepy place. Why would anyone want to buy it?”

  “Despite or because of the tremendous history of the area, it’s a great commercial venture as far as the tourist industry goes.”

  “I’d like to get into the house,” Angela said. “What did you see in it?”

  “Murder—but murder from the 1690s, I’m afraid,” Jenna told her. She hesitated. “Sam actually suggested we go back in, too.”

  “We could sneak in?” Angela suggested.

  Jenna shook her head. “No, Sam has a good relationship with the lead detective. John will let us back in, but I want to ask him. We’re probably looking at a court date for Malachi, and we don’t want to jeopardize the relationship.”

  “Of course not,” Angela said. She shivered again. “The evil in men’s hearts can linger, we do know that.”

  “Yes, but that would make Malachi the one who was exposed to evil and, Angela, I swear that boy is not evil. He’s almost holy!”

  “Where’s the cliff?”

  “Right down the street.”

  They left the sidewalk and hurried across the grassy plateau that led to the dirt-and-pebble path that led up to the cliff. When they reached the top, Angela looked around and studied the trees and the open area, and the rise that led straight to the water. They could hear the crashing of the waves.

  Angela walked over to the area where the hard New England granite jutted out over the sea. “Beautiful,” she murmured.

  “Yes—I think everyone local must come here at some time. It is beautiful.”

  Angela turned to her. “But I don’t think we should be standing here.”

  Jenna laughed. “We should hide in the trees?”

  “Not hide, just sit. So that we’re not seen immediately, don’t scare anyone off.”

  They walked over to the barren oaks and sat beneath them. It was chilly. The autumn breeze turned to wind on the cliff, and Jenna lifted the cowl of her sweater higher around her neck. “We could sit and freeze here for a while,” she said apologetically.

  “So we could—we’ve done worse!”

  But they didn’t have to wait long. In a few minutes, a group of three youths came walking up the path.

  They were big kids—most of them at least six feet.

  The school’s football team, Jenna thought.

  “Who’s got it?” one of them asked. He was a good-looking kid with stylish brown hair and a handsome, angular face.

  Jenna frowned, studying him. She’d seen him before. He’d been at the common on the day she had first arrived, when the younger children had gotten in trouble for reciting the rhyme.

  “Jonathan, there,” said the boy who had followed directly behind the first. Jenna was pretty sure she had seen him as well that day.

  “Well, let’s light it up!” the first boy said.

  Angela cleared her throat and rose, and the three boys started, staring at her. They seemed so surprised to see her that they didn’t run.

  “Hey,” Angela said, striding over to them with a
wide smile. “Sorry, guys. Just wanted you to notice us before…well, you know. Before you pulled your cigarettes out.”

  Jenna rose, as well.

  “Uh, hey,” the first boy said, looking from one of them to the other.

  Jenna stepped forward and offered her hand to the brown-haired youth who had led the trio. “Hi. I’m Jenna Duffy. This is my friend, Angela.”

  “Jenna was showing me the place. She used to come here when she was young.”

  The three were on the defensive, and they now looked as if they wanted to bolt, but they weren’t going to.

  “I know who you are,” the brown-haired youth said. “You’re Jamie O’Neill’s niece, and you’re trying to get Malachi off when he’s a bloody murderer.”

  Jenna kept an even smile. “And I know who you are, I believe. You’re David Yates.”

  He stiffened. He looked across at the other boys. “Yeah, I am. What of it?”

  “I don’t want to get anyone off—who’s guilty,” Jenna said. “I thought that you could help us understand what happened. We’re just trying to understand what has really gone on, that’s all.”

  “Malachi isn’t just nuts—he’s dangerous!” the second boy said.

  “Joshua Abbott, I presume?” Jenna said.

  He flushed and looked uncomfortable.

  The third boy, Jonathan, backed away from them all. “I’m not even here!” he said. He turned and fled.

  “Asswipe!” David Yates called after him, and turned back to Jenna and Angela. He flushed suddenly, maybe due to his choice of language in front of two female strangers.

  “Here’s the truth—Malachi is dangerous. And there’s something really not right about him, I mean, really evil. I think that the ghost of old man Lexington got into him—for real. He gave me the evil eye. I don’t care what the fu—what the psychiatrist tried to tell me. I know the evil eye when I see it. He made me hurt myself. I’m not kidding you. I’m lucky I didn’t run into the little prick up here—he might have made me jump off the cliff.”

  “Thank God you were just in a lunchroom,” Angela said.

  “Yes,” Jenna agreed. They were a good fifty feet from the cliff now; she intended to make sure that they stayed that way. Though these boys were still kids, they were also almost men.