Chain of Souls (Salem VI)

by Heath, Jack

  On one pass by the front window he saw someone who looked like they were hurrying away from his front door, and for half a second he wondered if Sarah had come, stood at the door for a few seconds, then lost her nerve and walked away. As soon as he thought it, he decided no. The person he had seen had been too big, a man almost certainly. Besides, Sarah wasn't going to lose her nerve. That wasn't her style. More likely she would come in with her barrels loaded with buckshot and pull both triggers at once, verbally of course.

  John looked at his watch. Five past seven. Okay, for once in her life Sarah was late. Probably she'd gotten caught in traffic, or maybe she was as nervous as he was about this dinner and that was causing her to drag her feet a bit. Thinking about it that way made him realize the stakes were huge. He wanted his relationship with his daughter as well as his relationship with Amy. He just hoped he could work things out with Sarah so he could have both.

  At fifteen after seven he gave up and went to the kitchen and poured himself more wine. Sipping it, he started to pace harder, his nervousness tinged with worry.

  "Take it easy," Amy said in a calming voice. "It's all going to work out okay."

  "Yeah," John said, but he wasn't convinced. If Sarah was going to be this late, it was strange she hadn't called. What if she'd been in a car accident? He tried to wall off the memories of the other night he had paced like this—the night Julie had gone out in a rainstorm to pick up some wine for a party they were hosting. It had been the night she had been killed in a terrible accident, the night, as he learned much later, she had been murdered by the Coven because they had thought John was driving the car.

  He looked out the window again, relieved to see the pavement was dry, the sky perfectly clear. He dug his cell phone from his pocket and checked the battery, nearly full, and then looked at the ringer to make sure the sound was turned on. There were no missed phone call or text messages.

  At twenty-five past he went into the kitchen. "I'm getting really worried. This isn't like Sarah."

  "Have you called her?"

  John shook his head as he dug his phone from his pocket and pressed Sarah's number on his speed dial list. He listened as the call went through and the line began to ring. When her message came on he killed the call.

  "John, she's about to have an awkward dinner with her father and his lover, a woman who is much younger than her mother was. In spite of the fact you think Sarah has balls of brass, she may be outside sitting in her car trying to work up the nerve to come to the door."

  John nodded, relieved that Amy was thinking in logical emotional terms and not traffic accident terms. He went to the front door, put his wine glass on the side table, and opened the door. An envelope rested on the doormat at his feet. It was small and square, the kind used for invitations. It was addressed to "John Andrews," and underneath it read, "By Hand."

  Curious, he picked it up, stepped back inside, and closed the door. He slipped his finger under the flap and removed the stiff note card inside. On the card, written in lovely calligraphy were the four words: "She is with us." Below the words was a carefully drawn symbol that drew his eyes like iron shavings racing to a magnet: a pentagram.

  John closed his eyes and grabbed his chest, feeling the world spin around him. Was this some sick bastard's idea of a joke? He fervently hoped it was because he couldn't deal with the idea he was reentering the nightmare from which he had escaped barely a week earlier. The pentagram had been the Coven's symbol. It was on the grave markers of the Coven's original members. The graves at Gallows Hill of those founders of Salem's first Coven actually formed a pentagram, although the symbol was so well hidden among the other family gravestones in Harmony Grove Cemetery John had only been able to see it when the spirit of Sarah Nurse had made the gravestones glow.

  John shook his head to try and clear his thoughts. Okay, he told himself, if this was a joke, maybe the jerk who'd put the envelope here was waiting around to see what kind of affect it might have. The rage he felt was empowering. It helped push away the other possibilities, the ones he could not bear to think about. Instead he remembered the person he had seen hurrying away from his front door over thirty minutes earlier. That had to be the one who put the envelope on his steps.

  Stepping back outside, John looked up and down Pickering Wharf for any sign of the man, but the sidewalk was empty. He pulled the door closed behind him and started right, in the direction he had seen the man walking. He went fast, his pace just short of a run, and tried to remember what the person had looked like: big shoulders, tall, maybe six feet, walked with a bit of a stoop, wore a hat so he had no idea of head shape or hair.

  Thinking he would remember the coat if he saw it again from the back, he headed down to the corner, intending to go into a couple of the nearest bars and see if somebody who fit that description might be standing at the bar regaling his friends with the story of the great practical joke he had just pulled on John Andrews.

  He was walking fast, so immersed in his rage that he almost missed the car. It was a Toyota Celica, dark green, just like Sarah's. He stopped, walked over, and looked at the car more closely to see if anyone was behind the wheel. The car was empty, but when he put his hand on the hood he could feel the engine heat still coming up through the metal. It meant the car hadn't been here long.

  He walked around to the back bumper and caught sight of Sarah's telltale bumper stickers, one for Romney/Ryan and another for FOX News, and fear and helplessness quickly eroded his rage. His brain sparked with unconnected thoughts, all of them aimed at finding a hope, a rationalization, some way to believe his world wasn't coming apart again.

  When he walked back around to the driver's side door and looked down, whatever hope he'd been able to muster vaporized instantly. On the ground just beside the door, as if they had been dropped, were a set of keys and a cell phone. Dreading what he knew he was going to find, he took out his own cell phone, hit her number, and watched the phone on the pavement light up and start to vibrate.

  He flicked on the flashlight app on his phone and shined it through the side window. As if they had left the car keys on the ground for him to find so there would be no doubt in his mind, he saw another envelope on the driver's seat similar in size to the one he'd found on his doorstep.

  This envelope was also addressed to Mr. John Andrews, followed with "By Hand." When he picked up her keys, he clicked the locks and grabbed the envelope. The same calligraphy graced the note inside. This time it said: "Stop. Last Warning." Beneath it, like a perverse signature, was the pentagram.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JOHN AND AMY HUDDLED AT THE KITCHEN TABLE in John's house staring at the two pentagram note cards. John had a mug of hot coffee cupped in his hands, and he kept shaking his head as if by doing so he could deny the reality of this moment.

  "They're not gone," he whispered. "I mean, I knew they weren't, but with their leaders all dead, I thought they would be in retreat. I thought it would take some time for them to get organized again, but it didn't and now they've got Sarah."

  A few minutes earlier he had stumbled back into the house and, barely able to put coherent thoughts together, had tried to tell Amy what he'd found. She had sat him down at the table and given him some coffee while they tried to calm down enough to decide what to do.

  "Come on, John, we've got to think and come up with a plan," she coaxed.

  John rocked in his chair, bombarded by guilt and fear. "You know what they do to people," he said through gritted teeth.

  "I also know you beat them once. That means you can do it again."

  "I don't know." As he said it he closed his eyes and thought back over the previous weeks when the spirit of Rebecca Nurse had led him into the heart of the Coven and how the power she had somehow infused in him had allowed him to destroy them. The results had been horrible, bloody beyond words, worse than the damage from a pointblank shot from twelve-gauge shotgun, but the leaders had been killed. Cabby Corwin, The Very Reverend Staunton Winthrop,
Senator Austin Howell, Amanda Putnam Pendergast, Abigail Putnam, all of them dead at his hand. It had been final, over, done. Even the lurid burn marks on his left forearm that had appeared after his first encounter with Rebecca Nurse and that had forced him to confront the reality of the Coven had disappeared.

  It had taken every ounce of strength and courage he possessed to endure the past couple weeks. He thought back to how weakened Amy had admitted to being, and he realized he had been kidding himself when he'd proposed going to England to chase after Jessica Lodge. He was still very close to his own limits. He needed to rest and regain his mental and physical strength, only now, there would be no opportunity.

  He grabbed handfuls of his hair and pulled. First his wife, and now his daughter, and even worse he had no idea who "they" were. That realization brought a fresh bolt of paranoia. They could be his neighbors, someone at the newspaper, anyone he passed on the street. After all, hadn't one of his erstwhile best friends, Rich Harvey, also been a senior member of the Coven?

  And why had they taken Sarah now? Did they know about the plans to restart the paper? Did they know about his threat to go find Jessica Lodge? Who could have been behind this kidnapping? His first thought was the lawyer, Chester Cabot, but then he thought of the staff at the paper. The honest answer was he had absolutely no idea who he could trust. It was also the reason he couldn't go to the police or anyone else and ask for help. He and Amy were completely on their own.

  Amy reached out and gripped his wrist and slowly forced him to unclench his hands and release his hair. As he brought his forearms back down to the table, he looked at the two pentagram cards and shook his head.

  "We need help," Amy said.

  Under any set of normal circumstances she would have been right, but nothing about this was normal. He looked up at her. "Who do we call?"

  "The police?"

  All John could think about was that Cabby Corwin had been a detective on the Salem police, and he had also been one of the leaders of the Salem Coven. "How can we trust them?"

  Amy nodded. "What about that one policeman you know?"

  "Andrew Card?" John shook his head. "I made the mistake of telling him I wanted to go to England to find Jessica Lodge. I doubt he'll even return my call."

  "John, you said that you thought he was part of some kind of group that's hunting the Coven internationally. Remember?"

  John nodded. "It wasn't so much what he actually said as what he implied. Or at least what I chose to read into it. He's pretty stingy with the facts."

  "So call him. Tell him what happened and ask him what we should do."

  John dug out his cell phone and called Card's number. When he got the recording he said, "The Coven has taken my daughter. Call me as soon as possible."

  He looked up at Amy and shook his head. "Now what?"

  "He works for the state police, right? Call their headquarters and talk to Card's superior. Tell him you need to speak with Card, that it's a matter of life and death."

  John nodded, grateful she was telling him what to do when his own brain seemed to be filled with molasses. He searched his web browser then called the state headquarters in Framingham. A desk sergeant answered. John explained that he needed to get a message to a senior member of the state police detective unit.

  "I'll put you through to Captain Rothstein's extension, sir. His secretary has gone for the evening, so you'll have to leave a message."

  "Can I speak to somebody right now?"

  "Is this an emergency, sir? If it is, you need to call 911."

  John ground his knuckles into his eyes, trying to keep his voice under control. The last thing he wanted was the entire Massachusetts State Police and the FBI descending on a kidnapping, at least he didn't want that before he'd had a chance to speak with Card. "No, it's not an emergency. It's just important that I speak to Captain Rothstein as soon as possible."

  "Hold on, please."

  A second later John heard the recording of Rothstein's assistant asking the caller to leave a detailed message. "This is John Andrews of Salem. I am the executive editor of the Salem News. I'm trying to reach Captain Andrew Card on a matter of great importance and I would like to ask that you make sure he returns this call." John left his home, office, and cell numbers, as well as his address.

  When he hung up he looked across at Amy. "I don't know who else to call."

  Amy shook her head and gripped his hand. After a second John pushed his chair back from the table and stood. "There is one more person I need to speak with," he said. He walked over to the counter, took a glass from the cabinet, poured himself a stiff bourbon, and then walked to the living room and turned on the lights.

  "Okay," he said to Rebecca Nurse's portrait. "I know you've probably gone to the great beyond someplace, and I have no right so say that you don't deserve your rest after so many years of waiting for your revenge. But I have to tell you that my daughter, Sarah, who is also your direct descendant, was taken by the Coven this evening.

  "I don't know what they want with her or what they plan to do." At this he took a deep pull on the bourbon and felt it burn down his throat. "I don't have any idea who these people are. We killed their leaders, but there are clearly more of them around. I don't know if there are any other spirits who are waiting to get even with the Coven, but if you hear this, could you let them know I need help."

  John looked up at the cracked oil painting of the old woman sitting in a rocking chair doing her embroidery. Part of him felt like a fool for talking to an ancient portrait, but he knew the strength of Rebecca's spirit because she had infused his body with immense power just a week earlier. The problem was he had no idea how to tap that power, and if he did, whether he would be able to control it, or whether it would even be possible to pull it into his body ever again.

  "I really need help," he said, his voice shaking. "Anything you can do would be greatly appreciated."

  He was walking back toward the kitchen when his cell phone rang. As he grabbed it and hit the answer button he saw that the caller's number was blocked. "Hello?" he said, hoping desperately that by some miracle he might hear Sarah's voice.

  "Daddy?" It was Sarah, he realized. His pulse skipped a beat. He heard fear in her tone. His spirit plummeted as quickly as it had soared.

  "Sarah!" he said. "Where are you? Are you all right?"

  "I don't know where I am. Right now I'm all right, but I'm scared. The people who took me want me to tell you to leave the Coven alone. They say if you don't," here her voice broke and he could hear her struggling not to cry. "I don't know what they're talking about, but they say if you don't do what they tell you, you'll never see me again."

  "Be brave, Sarah, I'm going to get you out of this," he said, but the connection had been cut before his reassuring words could reach his daughter's ears.

  He slammed down the phone and reached for his glass of bourbon, finishing the rest in one swallow. "Goddamnit," he shouted. "What the hell am I going to do?"

  He had never felt more powerless.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS THE LAST PLACE IN THE WORLD HE wanted to be, a place that only a week earlier he had promised himself he would never go again, yet here he was, sometime after midnight, having come through an unlocked gate into Harmony Grove Cemetery. The gate was one Rich Harvey had showed him just a week earlier, the night Rich had tried to deliver him to the Coven to be killed.

  Overhead, the clouds were low and heavy, threatening rain or perhaps even an early snow, but they reflected the lights of the city just enough so that the cemetery's walkways and gravestones were just barely visible. John stood at the bottom of one of the walkways, staring up the hill at the shadowy outline of the Putnam plot, the place where a number of his ancestors on the other side of his family tree had been buried, and the place where a number of the Putnam gravestones formed a well-camouflaged hexagram because, as he had discovered, a number of those same ancestors had been members of the Salem Coven.

  He too
k a deep breath and started up the walkway, toward the Putnam plot and the old granite mausoleum that loomed in the far corner. As he climbed the hill he could not banish the images that kept coming back to him from the last time he'd been here, scenes from the nightmare abattoir he had found in the vast catacombs beneath the cemetery. He felt drops of cold sweat break from his armpits and run down his sides.

  At least he wasn't alone. Even though he had seen the look of utter terror on Amy's face when he told her he needed to come here to try and find Sarah, and even though he would never have asked her to come with him, she'd insisted. It had been almost more than he could do to make himself return to this horrible place, and in some ways having Amy with him made it even harder. As much as he hated coming here, he hated even more putting Amy through the stress of returning to a place where she had been shackled to a wall and nearly killed only a few days earlier, but it was the only place in Salem where he thought Sarah's abductors might have brought her. He had no choice but to come here.

  Neither of them spoke as they walked up the hill. A few minutes later, as they approached the front of the mausoleum, a cold wind seemed to pick up and moan through the nearly leafless branches. He gripped Amy's hand, imagining he could feel a chill seeping into the very marrow of his bones that came from something far more sinister than wind.

  Around the back of the mausoleum, the old set of crumbling concrete steps led down to darkness. He took a flashlight from his pocket and shined it down toward the bottom of the steps and the old rusted door. He heard the breath catch in Amy's throat at the flicker of movement, but it was only the gray tatters of cobwebs in the breeze. Going down the steps, fighting the fear that made him want to turn and run, he led the way to the handprint set into the wall just to the left of the door.