Brent nodded and looked at Devin. “Beth really is okay, right?”
“She really is,” Devin said.
“Well, I’m here if you need me,” Brent told Rocky. “And I’d like to stay here, if it’s all the same to you, but I’m happy to answer any other questions you come up with.”
“Thanks, Brent,” Rocky said. “Oh, can you hold me four places on tonight’s tour?”
“You’re coming back?” Brent asked. He didn’t sound particularly pleased.
“No, but Angela and Jane don’t really know the area, and Sam and Jenna could use a break. I think they’ll all really enjoy it.”
“Oh. Okay,” Brent said.
“We think you’re being set up, Brent. We’re just going to keep an eye on things,” Rocky said.
“You planning on sending someone every night?” Brent asked, blinking.
“No, just for a few nights,” Rocky said.
“And then...?” Brent asked.
“By then I hope we’ll have caught a killer.”
Brent nodded. “See you later, then.”
Devin gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then she and Rocky left the shop.
“The cottage?” she asked.
“For now.”
“And then?”
“I think we should drop in on our friendly local bar.”
* * *
Auntie Mina was delighted to hear that she was going to have company again. She did, however, smile and giggle and then try to look entirely somber when she asked Devin about their sleeping arrangements.
“The whole Krewe isn’t sleeping here—not tonight, anyway,” Rocky said. “I want anyone who’s interested to think we’re still using the hotel as our base.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding both puzzled and just a touch worried.
“I’ll be using your room, Mina, if that’s all right,” he said.
“Of course,” Aunt Mina told him. “I mean, if that’s what you really want.”
Rocky and Devin managed to keep straight faces. “We’ll be most comfortable that way, Auntie Mina,” Devin said.
“Of course, dear, of course.” Auntie Mina seemed disappointed.
“Excuse me, I have to make some phone calls,” Rocky said. He pulled out his cell and wandered toward the front, trying for a decent signal.
“You should hang on to that one,” Auntie Mina told Devin, nodding gravely.
“Auntie Mina, he has his job, and it’s an important one that takes him all around the country.”
“Things work out, child. Things work out. Remember, home isn’t where you are, it’s who you’re with.”
“It’s who you’re with...” Devin repeated. “Auntie Mina...where are our family records? Shouldn’t we have an old Bible?” She walked over to the bookshelves, filled mainly with history books and a few old novels, along with an old journal her mother had kept, but as far as she knew, they didn’t have anything that dated back to the late 1600s.
“If there ever was a family Bible, it was gone long before I was born,” Aunt Mina told her. “The closest thing would be...let me see...”
Aunt Mina’s spirit swept across the room and joined Devin in front of the shelves. “Ah, there,” she said, pointing.
“The Chronicles of Narnia?” Devin asked, looking at her curiously.
“Don’t be silly—the next book.”
“Meet Me by the Hanging Tree?”
“Yes, that one.”
Devin pulled it out. As she held the book, she remembered leafing through it when she’d been younger. She looked at Auntie Mina, frowning.
“It was written by someone in the 1800s. An ancestor of ours, right? Percy Ainsworth—one of dad’s great-greats?”
“Yes. There were probably about a hundred copies of it at one time. I don’t think Percy was ready to hit the world of publishing, but he did have a lot of opinions on what happened here in Salem. There’s some family history in it.”
Devin took the book to the sofa and started reading through it. At first there was a lot of disorganized rambling. Percy had been convinced that Puritanism still ruled in Salem but that religious diversity was—and should be—on the way. But as she read further, she decided she would have liked old Percy. He was a forward thinker for his day.
She read aloud to Aunt Mina. “‘One of the things that must be remembered is that the people of Salem lived in a dark atmosphere of fear. While greed and hatred and the power that came with land ownership might well have influenced who was and who wasn’t accused, it was a time when society at large believed with full sincerity in the devil and the evil that the devil could do. Anything that hinted of a link to Satan was illegal to own. To curse a neighbor was an act of witchcraft, and by the laws governing the colonies, the practice of witchcraft was punishable with death. The people saw witchcraft in the same way that we see a disease that we know transfers from one man to another. In their minds, a person tainted as a witch might well convince another to sign the devil’s book. A mole or a freckle might be the devil’s work, as could any talisman. Handmade dolls could signify to the examiners that a person meant to prick or torment the dolls as the symbol of a real person, causing that person great harm or even death. Possession of medallions, toys and other objects from the West Indies, where voodoo was practiced, could mean arrest for a man or woman.’”
Devin looked up and saw that Auntie Mina was gone but Rocky, sitting across from her, was listening intently. “Sam found out something interesting earlier. That medallion you found buried with Margaret? It’s as much as eight hundred years old. It had probably been in her family—or someone’s, anyway―for generations.”
“So you think Margaret owned the pentagram herself?” she asked. “And someone—Elizabeth Blackmire―saw it and accused her of witchcraft. And if she was going to be arrested—”
“Someone might have been afraid of what she would say when she was examined. Who she would accuse,” Rocky said.
“But whether that’s the reason or someone just wanted to spare her a hideous death, how is her death connected to the current murders?” Devin asked.
“Theory,” Rocky said. “Maybe one of her descendants is carrying out some kind of twisted revenge, trying to pin the murders on Wiccans because he blames the witchcraft hysteria for Margaret’s death. Maybe he even believes the accused really were witches, so he thinks blaming Wiccans for the murders will end up wiping them all out, much more efficient than going after them one by one himself.”
“All right,” Devin said, smiling, “here’s another theory. Maybe Margaret knew a dark secret about someone important, something that could have gotten them killed—maybe even that someone no one suspected really was practicing witchcraft―and she was killed to keep her from talking. And now she sees someone else killing to keep people quiet and feels compelled to step in.”
“But how does either of those theories relate to all the victims having ancestors here back at the time of the witch trials?” Rocky wondered. “Okay, let’s say Margaret’s killer really was practicing black magic. Maybe the answer to the current murders is the obvious one. Blood ritual.”
“So these women are being sacrificed?” Devin asked.
“Possibly,” Rocky said. “In Margaret’s case, the killer might have accomplished two things. He kept her from talking, and he carried out a blood sacrifice.” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Now we just have to figure out how either a sacrifice or a mercy killing from the late 1600s connects to the present.”
Just then his phone rang. He answered, listened, said, “Gotcha,” and hung up, then met Devin’s eyes. “That was Sam. They showed Hermione’s picture around the bar, and Judah and one of the waitresses remember seeing her there. They’re meeting up with Brent soon, so we’re going to grab some dinner, then m
eet them all there after the tour.” He gave her a wry smile. “So much for a quiet night at home.”
CHAPTER 19
Angela, Jane, Jenna and Sam went on Brent Corbin’s tour that night. Rocky and Devin went to the bar early, before it filled up, and so they had time to eat dinner and be waiting when the tour was scheduled to end.
Rocky was starting to feel like a regular, he knew the staff so well.
Apparently they felt the same, because they were ready to help him. Although, he supposed, maybe that had more to do with him being part of the FBI. Judah Baker walked out from behind the bar to greet them. He called Brenda over, and set them up at a long table in the back, where they could observe both the bar and the floor. There was plenty of room for Brent and the Krewe to join them when they came in after the tour.
Before Brenda left, Rocky asked her, “If you see anyone you know was in here the night Barbara Benton disappeared, can you let me know, please? Same thing for the night Hermione Robicheaux was in.”
“Absolutely,” she promised.
“We’re on this,” Judah said. “I’m escorting half the staff home after work these days. Husbands and boyfriends can’t always make it. I can’t wait for you to get this guy.”
When Brenda came back with their drinks she asked Devin about signed books for her children. Devin promised to bring them by, then smiled at Rocky after Brenda left and said, “I feel like a real local tonight.”
“A local celebrity,” he said, smiling back. “Meanwhile, let’s order—I’m starving.”
They ate and talked about anything but the case. Soon after they finished, Brent and the Krewe joined them.
They talked about the tour and the history of Salem, but mostly they kept their eyes on the patrons. Finally it was almost closing and the crowd began to thin out.
Judah came over to the table and asked Rocky, “Anything else here? Last call coming.”
“We’re good. And I take it you haven’t seen anyone or anything noteworthy?”
Judah shook his head. “No, it’s been a nonlocal night. You guys are the only people who came in here I know—or have even seen before.”
Rocky thanked him and looked around the table. “Well, I guess that’s it,” he said. “Whenever you all are ready...”
He paid the check, and then they hung around on the sidewalk until the last customers had left. Brent thanked him for the drink and headed off down Essex.
“Disappointed?” Devin asked Rocky softly.
He shook his head and smiled at her. “Sometimes, nothing is something,” he told her.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning.
“What something would tonight’s nothing be?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He raised his voice and said, “Okay, guys, we’ll convene at the cottage in the morning. Everyone keep your—”
“Cell phones close by,” the others said in unison.
Rocky flushed slightly. “Sorry.”
They all said their good-nights. The Krewe members set off walking. Rocky and Devin headed for the garage and his car. He took her hand, and then, in the midst of the pedestrian mall with its lights casting an eerie glow over them, he hesitated.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“A nothing that might mean something?”
“Uh-huh.”
Hand in hand, they walked to the car. At the house, Mina was waiting for them. “Anything new?” she asked anxiously.
“Not tonight, Auntie Mina,” Devin said. She went into the kitchen and came out with treats for Poe. “You’re a good old bird,” she said.
“A dear bird, and I’m so pleased you’re caring for him so well,” Auntie Mina said. “Oh, dear. Here it comes. I feel myself fading.”
Devin laughed. “Oh, Auntie Mina! Now I’m picturing the witch from The Wizard of Oz saying. ‘I’m melllllting.’”
“No one likes a smart-aleck, missy,” Auntie Mina said. “And I am fading!”
With that, she disappeared.
Rocky laughed. “I do believe that Mina is doing her best to throw you into my arms.”
“Possibly,” Devin said, heading quickly to her room. “But I don’t trust her. See you in the morning.”
Rocky grinned. “Okay. See you then.”
“First one up brews the coffee,” she told him, then entered her room and closed the door.
He smiled. He was really going to miss her tonight.
But he was glad just to be near her.
He didn’t go to bed right away. He sat in the living room.
Listening.
Waiting.
Hours went by and nothing happened.
He picked up the book that Devin had been reading earlier, Meet Me by the Hanging Tree.
Percy Ainsworth had been one heck of a scholar, he thought as he read. The old guy made frequent references—complete with footnotes—to medieval devil worship.
Not paganism or anything that resembled modern Wicca.
Devil worship.
There had been cults at work in Eastern and Western Europe, arising almost simultaneously with Christianity itself. Of course, primitive peoples around the world had practiced blood sacrifice. Percy Ainsworth had found that in the 1500s—even as the so-called “burning times” were taking hold—a secret group called the Strega of Satan had been recruiting followers worldwide. According to Ainsworth, they might have come together in self-defense, on the theory that if a man was going to be accused of witchcraft, he might as well be a witch, practice some black magic and see what it got him.
Rumor had it that in the early 1500s the first European Inquisitors had come out of Spain and Italy—six exceptionally vicious men who had been known to rip people to shreds on the rack, pierce them, skin them and leave them hanging from the gibbets to be eaten by crows. After that, the number six had become the acceptable sacrifice to Satan to win his protection. Six was also the basis of the devil’s sign: 666.
Fragments from journals kept by those who were members of the Strega of Satan confirmed that the followers who delivered up unto their master the blood of six innocents would find what they sought: lives free from fear, filled with riches and a place in the house of Satan when they died, where wine, women and all earthly pleasures would be theirs for eternity.
After a while the words on the page began to blur. He yawned, stood and stretched, then walked over to check on Poe. The bird appeared to be peacefully sleeping.
He walked around the house, checking all the locks again. When he returned to the parlor he saw Mina standing there, smiling beatifically.
“I’m here, so go to sleep,” she told him.
“Thank you,” he said.
Mina wagged a finger at him. “And don’t let anything happen to her.”
“I won’t. I swear,” he said.
“Get on then, go to bed.”
Who was he to argue with a ghost?
* * *
Maybe it was because Auntie Mina had made her think about The Wizard of Oz. Whatever, Devin’s mind had gone into theater mode.
She slept easily—not as easily as when she was curled up against Rocky, but easily enough, knowing he was near. And in her dreams, she was at the theater.
Perhaps the first play should have been The Scarlet Letter or The Crucible. But she had gone into the Shakespearean realm instead.
Macbeth.
Three witches stood over a cauldron, stirring away. “Double, double toil and trouble.”
Then the Shakespearean part was over as the witches turned to look at something glowing red in the background. They bowed and scraped, and the steam issuing from their great cauldron took on a misty red hue...a crimson glow, as if blood had painted the ve
ry air. Then the red mist began to fade, and Devin saw what the witches had been staring at. A giant, horned goat-god, crimson and terrifying, perched upon a throne with a staff in his hand.
Satan, as the Puritans had envisioned him.
The crones continued to bow and scrap before the devil. Then they offered up chalices filled with the molten red liquid from their cauldron.
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble....
The words resonated in Devin’s ears.
And then, one by one, the witches spoke.
“For life eternal.”
“Riches eternal.”
“Luck and love eternal.”
The giant red goat-god stood and took the offerings. He began to move, and Devin saw herself as if from above, sitting in the audience, watching, and yet, as she watched...
The goat-god turned to her.
And smiled.
She woke with a start, gasping for air.
She was in her own room, of course, and she realized she hadn’t screamed or Rocky would have been there already, no doubt with his gun drawn. A glow through the curtains told her that the sun was rising.
She stood up, walked to the windows and opened the drapes. She could see the garden, wilted from the summer heat, the little stone path that led to the road...
And the forest off to the left.
Someone, she thought with complete certainty—and not the innocents who had died—had been practicing black magic in Salem.
And they had gotten away with murder.
* * *
The rest of the Krewe arrived just as Devin and Rocky began making breakfast.
She had told him about her dream, and Auntie Mina had materialized to listen in, then told her to study her dreams, because dreams were often a result of the subconscious mind trying to put together what the conscious mind was also attempting to puzzle out. And then Devin’s stomach had growled. Embarrassed, she said it was clearly time for breakfast.
Luckily she had shopped recently. When she’d told him she was going to make omelets—her forte—and he’d told her the Krewe was coming early and they should go somewhere, she’d been able to smile and tell him they had plenty of food. He put on coffee, worked the toaster and dealt with the bacon, while she whipped up fluffy omelets filled with cheese, veggies and bacon to order.
Heather Graham Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 4 Page 57
