Authors: Phillip Depoy

The Witch's Grave (32 page)

BOOK: The Witch's Grave

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“You seem healthier than the last time I visited,” he said sincerely, hand on my upper arm. “I think being back in the mountains and having a steady girlfriend might be doing your mental state some good. Not that there's any hope for you, of course.”

“Thanks.” There was my decision. Best keep the dream to myself, and a nagging complicity with Truevine's ways.

“Call Lucinda right now,” he said, climbing in behind the wheel of his Honda. “Let her know you're glad she's back.”

I waved until his car disappeared around the bend. Night noise stirred, filling the stage. The sky turned more Parrish than robin's egg. A star blinked; its darker cousin starling drew across the sky; then a flock of them headed south. Tree frogs, still singing despite
approaching winter, started up. The temperature dropped like a curtain.

I suddenly took the steps two at a time, bounded into the warm house, turned on every light downstairs, and grabbed the kitchen phone, jacket still on.

It rang three times, then: her voice.

“Hello?”

“Lucinda!”

“Fever!” She was happy to hear me on the other end.

“You're back.”

“Just.”

“You are not going to believe,” I began, “what-all happened while you were gone.”

“And you won't believe,” she countered lightly, “what I learned about cholesterol at this conference. You need to think about a vegetarian diet. You know they call it
Mediterranean;
we need to discuss it. I'm not having you get a heart attack.”

“Lucy,” I tried again.

“And you can't imagine how Birmingham's grown. I took pictures.”

Before I could interrupt her a third time with my news, I saw something moving out in the darkness barely beyond the porch light.

“Hold on, would you?” I said suddenly.

I turned off the kitchen lamps and stood to the side of the window, peering out, holding the phone to my chest. Someone was out there, walking slowly past my house. I thought at first to call out, but after a moment it was clear the figure was only passing by, a stranger on a stroll, and would be gone down the road in the direction of the ravine in short order. I let out a breath.

“Fever?” Lucinda asked, her voice tinny in the receiver.

I lifted it to my ear once more. “Sorry. Nothing.”

“You said something happened while I was gone. Is everything all right?”

“I'd really like to have dinner with you,” I said quickly. “Could we do that?”

“All right,” she said, a little taken aback. “When?”

“Right now. I'll come over; we'll drive around to the Dillard House.”

“You surely are,” she said, more surprised, “what's the term? A
live wire
tonight.”

“That I am,” I assured her happily. “I'll be right over?”

“Well, good,” she said haltingly.

“Really glad you're back. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” She started to say something else, took in a breath, changed her mind, it seemed. “See you in a minute.”

We hung up. I should have showered, changed, maybe shaved again, but I didn't want to take any more time than was essential in getting to her door. I was slowly realizing just how much I'd missed her, and it seemed I might pop a blood vessel if I didn't tell her soon.

I left the lights on, zipped my jacket tight, locked the door behind me, walked quickly to the truck.

The woods all around me, dark now, were full. High wind, black birds, clacking branches, musical frogs, bats, weeds whispering lowâhere and there, a possible footfall. The night was alive, a different world from the day. Creatures of all sorts were abroad.

Some life walks in the sun, certain of a path made clear by light. Other things thrive in darkness, afraid of scrutiny or too shy for noon.

Occasionally a door is opened between these two worlds: dark beings roam the morning; bright souls are plunged into night. But the door doesn't stay open long, at peril of those few who discover, too late, that they are trapped on the wrong side. Some who were meant to live in the sun turn stunted and pale by moonlight; nocturnal spirits likewise burn in the sun's harsh eye.

I hesitated, climbing into my truck, peering down the road where the stranger had walked, imagining it might be May headed south for warmer nights. I found myself hoping we would see her again when the year opened its door to the promise of spring, rebirth of growing things, new mornings. I would discover the next day that my grandfather's lily was gone from the group crypt and invent a scenario where May took it, pinned it to clasp the rag of June's old wedding dress, another talisman for her, proof that somewhere in the world people actually had loved each other.

The truck started up, headlights a silver dagger against the night. I turned the wheel south, toward Lucinda.

Names are important,
I thought as I eased the truck onto the road.
Hers means “clear light.”

The moon had risen past the treetops by the time I pulled up to her door. It seemed to hover directly over her roof, plaiting silver everywhereâcovering her house in white lilies.

BY PHILLIP DEPOY

THE FEVER DEVILIN SERIES

The Devil's Hearth
The Witch's Grave

THE FLAP TUCKER SERIES

Easy
Too Easy
Easy as One-Two-Three
Dancing Made Easy
Dead Easy

THE WITCH'S GRAVE. Copyright Â© 2004 by Phillip DePoy. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

eISBN 9781466821057

First eBook Edition : April 2012

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

DePoy, Phillip.

The witch's grave : a Fever Devilin mystery / by Philip DePoyâ1st ed.

p. cm.

1. FolkloristsâFiction. 2. Appalachian Region, SouthernâFiction. 3. Mountain lifeâFiction. 4. GeorgiaâFiction. I. Title.

PS3554.E624W58 2004

813'.6âdc22

2003058569

First Edition: February 2004