The Crockworthy Sisters Box Set - Parts 1-3

by Marcus Brown

  “What?” Jack asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  Grace spoke quietly. “His face was missing too.”

  Jack looked around the room, the feeling of collective horror almost palpable.

  “Jesus,” Jack said. “And I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”

  “Right, I’m heading over there now. Grace you’re with me. Niall, keep an eye out here, and if there’s any news on the boss, or Dembélé, call me right away.”

  “Gotcha, Boss,” Niall replied.

  “Stick to Jack, will ya? We’ve already got a boss and I’m not looking to replace her any time soon.”

  *

  The crime scene was tightly secured.

  Officers stood guard as the tent was erected around the victim’s body.

  Cold rain came down in heavy sheets. The unexpected turn in the weather wreaking havoc on the crime scene.

  The attending Forensic Pathologist, Marilyn Doyle, was kneeling over what was left of the victim.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said to Leighton Harley, as Jack and Grace stepped under the crime scene tape and approached.

  “I’m looking for Chief Inspector Harley,” he said.

  “You’ve found him,” Leighton said, stepping away from Marilyn and offering his hand.

  “Good to meet you, Sir.” Jack shook his hand. “I’m Jack Davies and this is my colleague, Grace Meadows.”

  “Harley’s fine,” he replied, offering his hand to Grace. “Good to meet you both. Tell me, how’s Tabitha? We were all shocked to hear what happened to her.”

  “Oh, you know the boss?” Grace asked.

  “Yeah, we go way back. I’ve never butted heads with somebody as much as I did with her. Stubborn as a mule, that one. A bang on the head won’t be the end of her, mark my words.”

  “I don’t think she’s changed much, but you didn’t hear that from me,” Grace replied.

  Leighton winked in acknowledgment. “So, how is she?”

  “Holding her own.” Jack added, “Remarkable considering how hard she was clobbered – lucky she managed to raise the alarm and we found her when we did.”

  “And the other guy. What was his name?”

  “Trey Dembélé.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” Harley replied.

  “Still critical,” Jack replied, sadly. “He’s a good guy, so we’re all rooting for him.”

  “Doesn’t bear thinking about, and now this mess has crossed over the border, so to speak.”

  “The press will have a field day when they get wind of it. They’re still on the warpath over Tony Marshall.”

  “Yeah, I forgot about him. Any sign?”

  “He’s probably found his way into a pie by now,” Grace added.

  Harley and Jack glared at her, obviously not impressed with the ill-timed joke.

  “Anyway,” Harley said, changing the subject. “We don’t have an ID for this guy yet. It’ll make it much more difficult now we don’t have a face to work with.”

  “Shit, I was hoping Grace was winding me up over that part.”

  “I wish she was. The lovely Marilyn over there…” he said, pointing to the gorgeous blonde, “…is fairly certain we’re dealing with the same guy, but won’t commit to it until she gets the body back to the morgue.”

  “For our sake, I hope she’s right, or we have a copycat on our hands. One lunatic on the loose is bad enough, but two…” Jack stared into space.

  Chapter Six

  It was deathly quiet in the Intensive Care ward. The blinds were closed, and the room was awash with serenity.

  The nurse’s station was at the far end of the ward. Three beds were positioned opposite one another, but there was no sign of life from any of the inhabitants. The machines keeping the patient’s alive beeped at different intervals.

  Trey Dembélé was in the bed farthest away from the ward doors, closer to the on-duty nurse, and at the foot, a uniformed policeman sat.

  The machine he was attached to made the same noises over and over, and despite the best medical care available, there was no change in Trey’s condition.

  But, he was still in there, fighting. He willed his eyes to open, wanting to take his life back.

  He could hear the conversations around him clearly, wanting to open his mouth and speak, tell them he was fine, but continually frustrated at not being able to.

  “Little or no brain activity,” one of the specialists had said. “And even if he does wake up, we’re looking at a permanent vegetative state.”

  He knew what it all meant. He was a doctor after all. Yes, he’d moved on to pathology, but it didn’t take away the years of medical school training beforehand.

  Trey felt like a prisoner in his own body and willed himself to move again, but bizarrely, he found himself looking down at his own battered and injured body.

  It was the strangest sensation -- like he was being pulled away, but at the same time, he was fighting to get back inside his body when a blinding light forced him to shield his eyes.

  “It’s time,” a voice said.

  He opened his eyes to see a woman stood before him.

  “Who are you?” he asked, trying to get a good look at her face.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am, but I’m here to take you onto the next step of your journey.” She held out her hand and as hard as he tried to refuse, he felt compelled to take it.

  He reached out and took her hand, and seconds later was pulled into the light.

  *

  The officer jumped out of his chair as the heartbeat on the monitor flat-lined.

  The crash team raced into the room, stripping the covers back, doing whatever they could to restart his heart.

  Five minutes later, the doctor stepped away from the bed.

  “Are we all agreed?” he asked those in attendance. They nodded back their approval. He checked his watch. “Time of death, Eleven twenty-seven am.”

  The doctor reached across and pulled the sheet over Trey’s face.

  He was gone.

  *

  On the other side of the hospital, Tabitha’s eyes flew open.

  Her head was sore and felt like somebody had dropped a paving slab onto it.

  The blinds in the private room had been drawn closed. Thank the Goddess, she thought to herself.

  A familiar voice brought her out of her daze.

  “Tabi, can you hear me?” Talia leant in close, too close making her jump a little.

  “I’m not blind, Tally,” she answered, her voice barely a whisper. “You don’t have to come in that close.”

  “Oops, sorry,” she said, smiling. “I’m so happy you’re awake. Tammy’s just gone to get some dishwater this place tries to pass off as coffee. She won’t be long.”

  Tabitha closed her eyes again for a moment, trying to make something out of her jumbled thoughts. “What happened?”

  “Jeremiah clocked you good and proper. Don’t you remember?”

  “Not really. The last thing I remember is seeing Trey…”

  Tamara pushed the door open and dropped the two treacle coloured coffees in the plastic cups on the floor. “You’re awake?” she screeched as Tabitha flinched, the high-pitched noise making her head pound even more.

  “Really, Motor Mouth, do you have to?” Talia said through gritted teeth.

  Ignoring the spilt coffee, she rushed over to her bedside. “I’m sorry, Tabi -- I was so scared,” she sobbed.

  “It’s okay,” Tabitha replied, gently tapping her sister’s hand. “I just need to get my bearings and I’ll be back to normal in no time.”

  “Tammy, give her some space will you.” Talia pulled her away from the bed.

  “Trey,” Tabitha suddenly remembered. “Is he okay?” She looked at her sisters’ faces and knew there was something they didn’t want to say. “What?” she asked, trying to push herself up into a sitting position.

  “Tabi, don’t do that,” Tamara told her.

  “Tel
l me where Trey is, or I’ll get out of this bed myself and look for him.” She tried to blink, but she was too weak to do the smallest of tasks.

  “Tabi. I’m so sorry,” Tamara said, her eyes filling with tears again. “There was nothing they could do. He died an hour ago.”

  Tabitha felt as though she’d been hit by a speeding train, and for the first time in a hundred years, she felt absolute heartbreak.

  “Tammy, we were told not to tell her yet.” Talia looked angry. “Come on, Tabi. Now’s not the time to think about this. Shut your eyes and go back to sleep for a while. You’ll feel better with a bit more rest.”

  Tears rolled down Tabitha’s left cheek as she began to tremble.

  The lights in the room dimmed and began to flicker as the heart monitor began to beep irregularly.

  Tabitha’s eyes rolled to the back of her head and for a moment she shook violently, then lay deathly still, the flat-line pitch from the electrocardiograph machine echoing around the confined space.

  Tamara and Talia screamed.

  *

  Jack Davies slid the mobile phone into his back pocket. It was the news he’d been waiting for.

  “Guys, one minute, please. I’ve just got off the phone from Harley and they’ve confirmed the ID of the latest victim.”

  “Who is the poor bugger?” Grace asked.

  “His name is Jamie Dennison. Twenty years old. Next of kin has been informed, but the pathologist working the case has confirmed DNA found on the body matches that of our John Doe.”

  “Here we go again,” Grace added. “I just don’t see how any of this is possible.”

  “Admittedly, there’re questions that need to be answered,” Jack added.

  “How the hell has this guy survived the burns so quickly? None of this adds up, Jack. Surely I’m not the only one who can see it.”

  “You’re not, Grace,” Niall interjected, “but we can only work with what we have, and if we’re being told it’s the same guy…”

  “Is there any possibility he was working with somebody,” Grace interrupted, “and they’ve deliberately added his DNA into the mix to throw us off the scent?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but that’s worth more thought,” Jack replied as his mobile started to ring. “Sorry, Grace, give me a minute, please.” He pressed the green icon and listened for a few seconds before sitting at the edge of his desk, his chin resting on his chest. “Okay – I’ll let everyone know. Thanks for the heads up.”

  “What now?” Niall asked.

  “We’ve just lost Dembélé,” Jack answered, putting his head in his hands.

  A collective groan went out around the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Abigail walked around the hotel gardens, the aroma from the jasmine and roses making her nose tingle.

  She’d always loved nature, but she was a witch without a soul and no longer felt her bond to the Goddess. Looking about, she was somewhat ambivalent to what she would once have been enchanted by.

  “Numen,” she called. “Walk with me.”

  In a heartbeat, he appeared at her side in human form and fell into step.

  “What troubles you, Mistress?”

  “This place,” she said, holding out her arms to signify her surroundings. There was a forlorn expression written across her face. “I’m out of time here and want to return where I was once happiest.”

  “That time is lost to the past – you know it’s not possible for you to return to 1692.”

  “I don’t want to hear your piss poor excuses -- tell me how to make it possible.”

  “Crossing yourself in the past would be catastrophic,” Numen warned.

  “There must be a way.” A tinge of desperation was present in her voice.

  “Mistress, you’re free to return to any point in time you wish, I cannot stop you, but the consequences would be dire and there’s no chance of you surviving such a paradox and exist at the same time as another version of yourself. There isn’t a single spell I know of that would allow you to bend the laws of nature to that extreme.”

  “Then find one,” she decreed. “I want to go home.”

  “Does this have anything to do with your daughters?” Numen asked.

  “No,” she answered immediately, placing her hand gently on her stomach.

  “A part of you craves to be with them again. Am I right?”

  “You’re not here to surmise or analyse my innermost thoughts, Numen. My daughters are my concern. Be warned and stay out of it.”

  “As you wish, Mistress,” he responded dutifully. “If you allow, I will continue my research and see if I can find anything that could offer an insight as to how you could return to your own time, unscathed.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” she said, tapping the top of his unnaturally cold hand. “Regardless of what once transpired between us, I’m glad you stand by my side again.”

  “As am I.” Numen bowed his head, his form fading, carried away by the gentle breeze.

  *

  Moments later, Numen materialised in the converted loft space.

  His vast collection of spell books was scattered all around his work space.

  A grunt from behind drew his attention.

  “Do you like your new face, Jeremiah?” Numen asked, turning to look at the man sat in the rocking chair in the dark corner of the room.

  Numen had removed the face from its previous owner and crudely stapled it to the remaining flesh on Jeremiah’s face. It looked like a badly fitted mask. But right now, shadows concealed the true horror of it.

  “I preferred my own, but this will suffice,” Jeremiah replied, able to speak more clearly than he had days before.

  “Good. In time, you’ll be able to return home and marry your betrothed.”

  “And why would you do anything to help me?”

  “Because, you’re going to help me put an end to the Crockworthy’s once and for all.”

  “They’re too powerful,” Jeremiah replied.

  “That may be so, but I have something our mistress and her daughters do not.”

  “What?” Jeremiah replied, flatly.

  “These,” Numen replied. And with a click of his fingers, both the Crockworthy and Bishop Grimoires hovered in the air above them.

  “How?” Jeremiah gasped.

  “It was easy to procure them because I knew where they were hidden.”

  “Where?”

  “The books wouldn’t stray too far from the Crockworthy’s. It was easy really, once I realised where they were.”

  “Where were they?”

  “You don’t need to know that, Jeremiah.”

  “The grimoires could send me home to 1692.”

  “And they will, once I’ve managed to convince the books to open and reveal their collective powers.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “The book no longer thinks of Abigail as its mistress, but its allegiance may still lie with the sisters. But don’t worry about the semantics – I have a few tricks of my own.”

  “The book won’t betray the sisters.”

  “Yes, you’re right, but give me time to do some research of my own, and who knows what may be possible.”

  “Let me guess.” Jeremiah surmised. “I don’t need to know.”

  “Correct,” Numen answered. “Now, I have work to do if I’m finally to be rid of Abigail and her repulsive daughters.”

  Chapter Eight

  Tabitha wasn’t supposed to be out of bed. The shock of discovering Trey’s death had taken a huge toll on her health.

  She’d willed her own heart to stop beating, wanting to be with him, but the doctors had brought her back, once again.

  Resigned to life without him, nothing would deter her from seeing Trey one final time.

  Resignation wasn’t the same as acceptance and the news of his death had shattered her completely. Immense feelings of guilt ate away at her.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Tabi.” Tamar
a was usually the voice of reason between the three sisters, but nothing she said would take away the feeling of loss. “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “But I do blame myself, Tammy.” The words spilled out of her mouth, full of anger and tinged with heartache. “If we hadn’t gone back in time for our mother, none of this would have happened.

  “No, Tabi,” Talia added. “We swore never to do this.”

  “How many people are dead now because of the Crockworthy’s?”

  “We’re not to blame,” Talia added. “But if you want somebody to blame, look toward Cotton Mather and Jeremiah Blackwell. They started this whole mess the day they came for us.”

  Tabitha swung her legs out of bed and put her feet firmly on the floor. She stood up and the room began to spin.

  Tamara and Talia rushed over to steady her, but she pushed them away.

  “You’re not strong enough yet,” Talia stated. “And besides, Trey can wait. It’s not like he’s going anywhere, is it?”

  “Tally,” Tamara said, gasping, seemingly shocked by the insensitivity of her sisters’ comment.

  “I didn’t mean it like that and you know it.”

  Tabitha took baby steps toward the door, the dizzy feeling disappearing with every movement. She willed her feet to move forward and for her body to bend to her will. She knew she must have looked a sight with the bandage wrapped around her head and strands of hair sticking out at awkward angles, but she didn’t care.

  She pulled open the door, unsurprised to see two uniformed police officers standing guard.

  “Ma’am,” they said in unison.

  “Officers,” she replied. “I’d be extremely grateful if you would escort me to the morgue.”

  “We’ve had instructions not to move from here,” the red headed officer with the cute freckles answered nervously.

  “Who gave that order?” she asked, more than irritated.

  “Jack Davies,” the other officer added.

  “Well, bully for Jack Davies,” Tabitha replied sarcastically. “Get him on the phone if you want to, but I’m going, with or without you.”