Authors: Phillip Depoy

The Witch's Grave (26 page)

BOOK: The Witch's Grave

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“They didn't even know we were in the Newcomb place.” I stepped up onto the porch, went to the window. “Do you really think they would have shot into the house if they'd known their sister was inside?”

He paused. “Good point.”

I put my hand over my eyebrows and pressed my nose to the window, hoping to see through the opaque curtains into the cabin. I could only see shapes and shadows. Nothing was moving.

“Should I check the door?” I said, still gazing in the window.

“No, Christ!”

“Hey.” I turned to him. “Come up here. You've got to feel this thing at the doorway. The geothermal shot.”

“Not for a thousand dollars,” he said, not budging, “to coin your phrase.”

“Come on,” I urged. “It's reallyâ” My words stopped short when
my eye fell on what was arranged neatly in the sunniest part of the porch corner.

“What is it?” Andrews asked urgently. “Do you see them?” He readied himself to run.

“No.”

Standing in the corner were two clay pots planted with sedge and contorted hazel, ringed in dried weeds, as well as a wooden bowl of water, a smooth black river rock, and a dead salamander.

“You've got to see this.” I moved toward the arrangement.

“I'm not putting my hand in some blast of hot air,” he insisted, “just for your amusement.”

“Not that,” I said, inching closer to the sunny corner, eyes locked on it. “There's something on the porch.”

“What is it?”

“It's a collection of things,” I said, bending down, “from the dream I was telling you about.”

That was enough. He started toward me. “What do you mean?”

“The exact phrase my great-grandmother used,” I said to Andrews, “was âsedge and hazel, weed and water, rock and salamander.'”

“You remember it that precisely?” He took the steps, staring down at the circle of weeds. “You know, I think this is weed.”

“Unusual in Truevine's garden,” I admitted. “There's not a weed anywhere. It must have come from the hillside up there.”

“No, Grandpa,” he chided. “
Weed,
pot, grass, marijuana.”

“What?” I peered down at it.

“If memory serves,” he assured me, “that's what it looks like.”

“Hemp!”

“I guess some people call it that.” He eyed me sidelong.

“I didn't tell you about the hemp circle the girl made in the story,” I said, my words quickening. “That's what brought her lover's spirit from Baffin Bay to her side.”

“So you're saying all this stuff was in your dream just like this?”

I stared down. “Something like it.”

“Well, you don't need to sound so spooky about it,” Andrews said calmly. “It was here when you came to visit the boys the other day.
You said yourself that you may have seen something your conscious mind took in but didn't register.” He dismissed the assemblage in the corner with a flourish of his hand. “Exhibit A.”

“Oh.” I let out the breath I'd been holding for a while. “You know, I might have.” I saw the things with new eyes. “In fact, this stone? Could be one I picked up when Dover dragged me. So why did this gunk come up in the dream?”

“You understand this conglomeration,” he said slowly, “is a not unlike the assemblage of stones and trash in the corner of the
Adele
crypt.”

“It is.”

“And anyway, why would these particular things manifest in your subconscious? Why hemp, for instance?”

“Wild hemp,” I answered him, “not the smoking kind, the rope-making variety, grows as a weed here. The symbology is clear: the plant that makes rope works in a spell of binding.”

“Makes sense,” he admitted, “in context.” He bit his lower lip. “Hang on.” His voice picked up. “You mean this is the spell from your dream. Truevine was trying to call back her lover's departed spiritâsomething she said in the Newcomb mansion.”

“She thought Able was dead,” I agreed. “She believed this would bring him back to her.” I nudged the stone with my toe. “And it did.”

“You've got an idea,” he said, watching the side of my face. “You know something.”

The brothers being nowhere to be found, I told Andrews we were going to speak with Hezekiah Cotage. His church was not far away. We'd clear up a few things about his past, and I'd order them in my mind. Andrews didn't understand, but he'd chosen to give up thinking too hard.

The church, a white box in the middle of the woods, gleamed in the slant of autumn sunlight. All the saints of the day had apparently decided to look in on Hek: the grace of illumination, the air, a carpet of surrounding burgundy leaves, made the plain little building
seem a cathedral. We pulled up close to the door. There were no other cars.

Inside voices were lifted in song, page 65 from the new 1991 edition of the Sacred Harp book,
Sweet Prospect.
“Oh, the transporting rapt'rous scene that rises to my eye, Sweet fields arrayed in living green And rivers of delight.”

Andrews and I sat in the truck, unwilling to disturb the sound as it wrapped around us like a clean autumn wind, bracing, washing away darker thought.

The singing ended. A moment later an older couple appeared in the doorway; affectless and slow. They moved without speaking onto the path that wandered down the mountain. One by one the rest of the parishioners exited the church. I got out of the truck.

Hek came to the door.

“I thought I heard your truck,” he said. “Is that Dr. Andrews?”

Andrews got out the passenger side, waved.

“You missed the service,” Hek said.

“We heard the last song, though,” Andrews said, shaking his head. “I still can't get used to that harmonic structure; it's very strange.”

“Simple,” Hek said proudly. “Ancient harmony.”

“Have you ever recorded that stuff?” Andrews asked me.

“There certainly are recordings of the music,” I said, “lots of good ones, but when I hear them I'm always a little disappointed. It's impossible to capture the feeling of that sound.”

“You have to be in church,” Hek agreed, “to hear those hymns right. You want to come in, talk?”

“I do,” I answered.

“Thought so.” He disappeared back into the church.

We followed.

“You mow the lawn since I was here last?” Andrews asked, teasing. It had been over a year since his most recent visit. “The place looks cleaner.”

“Got a new paint job,” Hek said, not looking back over his shoulder. “New roof.”

“Collection plate must be full,” Andrews said, looking around the inside of the place.

“All donated,” Hek said absently.

Walls were whitewashed; benches were sturdy; the floor was worn but swept clean. Windows were clear; light poured in like honey. At the far end of the tabernacle was a stone bowl that served as baptismal font and the starting place for Hek's wild, rambling sermons.

That bowl had once been at the center of controversy: was it an imitation artifact or the holy grail? To the faithful it was a sacred relic; to a doubting academic community it was simply an aberration. Time had rolled over those troubles like a river and all had been washed clean. The congregation still came to church, Hek still handled snakes and promised a fiery hell without God. A rage of contention had scoured the church. In the end Hek cared for his flock and they believed the word. That was enough.

“Hek,” I began, unable to take my eyes off the golden floor, “I have something I want to ask you. It may be uncomfortable.”

“If you want me to wait outside â¦” Andrews offered.

“Nothing is hidden from God,” Hek said quietly.

He took the aisle seat on the first bench. I sat opposite him, Andrews lingered farther back.

“I've put two and two together,” I began.

“Hope you got four,” Hek said evenly, eyes locked on mine.

“And I've spoken with May.”

I stopped, let that sink in for a moment. Silence was kind, softening every thought.

“May,” he said at last, a sigh.

“She gave you that piece of cloth in the graveyard the other day.”

“She did.”

“Why didn't you tell me that?” I leaned in, closer to him.

“June don't know about that part of my life,” he answered, dulcet tones. “She had enough suffering when I was gone; I always thought it best to leave out that part of my story. Seemed right: let the dead bury the dead.”

“A thought which has occurred to me a lot lately,” I assured him.

He let out a long sigh. “Good. I was afraid you had some notion to tell June, tell the deputy about them people up there.” He lowered his voice. “I still take a basket of food or such up yonder every now and again.”

“I know.”

“Always glad to see May's still around. See her every year about this time.”

“She's migrating.” I saw her face in firelight. “Moving south from Chicago.”

“But not to Florida,” he added, a gleam in his eye.

“I believe she has a little crush on you.”

He blushed. “Shoot.”

“Hek,” I said, my voice stronger, “you deliberately told me about seeing some mysterious apparition in the graveyard and taking that cloth from her. You wanted to make me curious, investigate, maybe find May and the others.”

“I did.”

“You didn't want to tell me about them, but you wanted me to find them.”

“Correct.”

“Why?” I folded my hands, waited for an answer.

“Truevine.” That was all.

He stood.

“Wait,” Andrews jumped in. “That's not nearly enough.”

“It's all I care to say,” Hek said solidly. “Got to get on home. June'll be waiting.”

“You wanted me to find Truevine,” I said, following him as he strode toward the door.

“And?”

I stopped. He was testing me. Sometimes he, along with a handful of older men in town, wanted to prove they were just as smart as someone with a university education. Hek had done it to me many times before.

“There's something more you wanted me to find up there.” I started after him again.

“Besides the hobo camp?” Andrews asked me.

“Something to do with the murder,” I said louder.

Hek was through the door without looking back.

“Why doesn't he just tell you?” Andrews fumed. “Why does everyone up here think that telling you anything is like a mortal sin?”

“Frustrating, isn't it,” I commiserated, smiling.

“But it doesn't matter to you,” he said, calming, “because he confirmed something in your mind. I know that look.” He shifted, sighing through clenched teeth. “You're as bad as he is. You not going to tell me what you're thinking, are you?”

“I'm just thinking. It could be nothing. But I've decided we shouldn't proceed any further without at least trying to speak to Skidmore. I suspect he might already be gone into the woods looking for Truevine again. Maybe that's the reason no one was home at the Deveroe household.”

I headed the truck for Skidmore's office.

Andrews glanced at his watch. “It's after ten. You don't think he'll be in his office.”

“No, but somebody may tell us where he went. We could catch up with him.” I looked up at the polished mirror of the sky. “Nice day for it.”

My old green truck took the last corner of downhill road comfortably, slowed coming onto the blacktop. Everything seemed clearer than it had the day before, crisp air focused, a window wiped clean. The fields, tan sheaves of corn, golden rolls of hay, bore no resemblance to the dreary gray rags we'd seen in the rain.

In town, the police station appeared empty. We pulled into a spot right in front of the door. There was a note. I climbed out; Andrews stayed put.

“âDr. Devilin,'” I read aloud from the note written in Skidmore's hand, “âyou might join me at the mortuary if you read this note before noon.'”

He hadn't signed it. I peeled the Scotch tape, crumpled the note, stuck it in the soft leather coat pocket.

BOOK: The Witch's Grave

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