A Witch's Tale (13 page)

“Two olives and an onion.
The only truly civilized way to drink a martini.”
Alan took a very gentlemanly sip of his drink.
“Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”
He leaned towards Mac and dropped his voice until he could just barely be heard over the din of the TV and the bar’s patrons. “I’m the expert, you know.”

Mac laughed and nodded his agreement.
Who was he to argue?

“You don’t like your drink?
I had you figured for a boilermaker man.
I hope I haven’t insulted you by ordering the wrong drink.”

“No, it’s the right drink, j
ust the wrong time.
I think I’d rather have some coffee.”
Mac signaled to the waitress to remove the beverages before him and asked for coffee, black with no sugar.

“Ah, come on!
You aren’t going to make me drink alone, are you?
What kind of a buddy would do that?”

Mac reminded himself that Alan’s whiny tone came from the booze.
Tomorrow, when he had sobered up, Alan would return to his usual charming self.
But until that happened, Mac would just have to put up with it if he was going to take advantage of the situation.

“Sorry, old buddy, but I can’t help you out on this one.
But, hey, d
on’t let my not drinking spoil your party.
Here, let me buy you another one of those.”
Mac caught the waitress’ eye and signaled for yet another martini.
“Looks to me like you might set a record.”

“That’d be
somethin
’, wouldn’t it?” Alan replied, gazing at the row of colored plastic sticks.
“I’d be the champ.
A winner.
Instead of the miserable excuse for a human being I really am.”

Mac settled against the hard back of the bench.
If he knew drunks as well as he thought he did, Alan was about to go on a talking jag.
And Mac, good buddy that he was, had every intention of letting him talk his head off.

“
S’all
my fault.”

Mac lifted one eyebrow, his expression inquiring.

“Should’ve stayed with her.
Shouldn’t ‘ve let her talk me into going
home.
”

“Do you mean Myra?”

“Who else would I be talking about?
Who else is this whole cursed town talking about?”

Mac’s only answer was a sage nod of agreement.

“Shouldn’t have listened to her.
No matter how much she insisted, I should’ve stayed right there with her.”
His fingers twisted the stem of his martini glass as he gazed at the swirling liquid.

“I let her down, damn it!
If I’d stayed, she never would have ... well, you know.”
Alan slumped back against the bench, his chin resting on his chest.

“Wait a minute.
Are you saying you believe she actually did what they say she did?
”

“Of course she did it.
Ho
w else do you explain the blood,
o
r haven’t you heard about that yet?”
In an instant Alan pulled himself upright.
Thrusting his face close to Mac’s, he whispered gruffly, “It was on her lips, for God’s sake!
She had a bowl of it right there beside her bed!”

Mac managed to maintain his cool, indifferent attitude, refusing to respond to Alan’s histrionics.

“So you’re ready to convict her.
So much for standing by the woman you love.”
Mac took a sip of his coffee, his eyes level over the top of the mug
,
never leaving Alan’s face.

“Love!
We’re talking about cold-
blooded murder here.
We’re talking about mutilation and desecration!”

“Right!”
Mac suddenly dropped his nonchalant pose.
Bracing himself with both hands on the table, he leaned towards Alan until their faces were just inches apart.
“And neither you
n
or anybody else is going to convince me that Myra Adams or any one of her little band of followers is capable of committing the atrocities they’ve been accused of.”

Mac refused to acknowledge how badly Alan’s revelation had shaken him.
If he allowed himself to believe for one moment that Myra had actually drunk the blood of her victim, he must also accept the fact that Cassie could also be guilty of such an offense.
It simply wasn’t possible.

“But they’re witches.
What do you think
they do out there in the woods - c
hant at the moon?”

“What do you know of witchcraft, Alan?
Their kind of witchcraft?
Have you ever asked Myra about it?
Have you made even the slightest effort to learn about Myra’s religion?
Come on!
You say you’re in love with the woman.
Haven’t you been even a little bit curious?”

Alan slumped back in his seat.
He rea
ched for his martini glass and
let his hand drop to the table.

“I just never took it seriously.
I figured it was just a harmless distraction, that when we got married she’d forget all about it.”

Bracing his elbows on the
table, h
e dropped his head into his hands.
His shoulders shook as sobs racked his body.
Mac had seldom seen a more pitiful drunk.
A decent person would let
up on the guy, give him a break, b
ut Mac didn’t feel particularly decent at the moment.

“So you’re just going to sit back and let them crucify her?
You figure that’s what she deserves?”

“No!
Oh, God, I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, buddy, if it makes you feel any better, neither do I,” Mac replied, his voice filled with regret.

Hands sunk deep in his
pockets,
Mac walked the quiet street alone.
He’d spent the last hour getting Alan safely back to his place and listening to more alcoholic ramblings.
The
whole scene brought back so many memories - not particularly good ones.

Time to find a meeting, Mac reminded himself.
He’d been planning on looking up a local AA meeting ever since hitting town but had kept putting it off.
Today
’s close call had hit too close to home to ignore, he realized as he vowed to check into it first thing the next morning.

Seeing Alan like that had hit him like a rock.
There had been too many times when Mac had sought refuge from his pain in just the same manner.
He was grateful that that was no longer true.

But Alan wasn’t like him.
Except for a world-class headache, he would be okay in the morning.
Oh, he would still be in as much turmoil about Myra and her problems, but Mac doubted that Alan’s first instin
ct would be to repeat today
’s excesses as his would have been.

Aside from this crazy witch business, Mac sort of envied Alan.
The guy really had it made.
Up until lately Mac would have scoffed at the idea of living so far from
the excitement of big city life, b
ut lately the thought of settling down in a peaceful, homey community such as Port
Bellmont
, maybe running his own weekly, sounded rather appealing.

The thought suddenly struck Mac that he had never even considered staying in one place longer than it took to get the story.
Now, for the first time in his life, he was beginning to see his nomadic life for what it was - a hollow, lonely existence.

What a day!
He couldn’t remember experiencing
a more miserable eighteen hours.
And now, looking up at the dark windows of the Sea View Manor Inn, he dreaded entering the deserted bed-and-breakfast.

Not entirely deserted, he reminded himself as he fumbled for the key Mary Beth had asked the sheriff’s deputy to give him.
As he turned the key in the lock
,
the excited yips coming from the backyard reminded him that there was still one creature in the world who welcomed him with completely unconditional love.

Well, it was a start.

He didn’t know which it was,
Sarge’s
snoring or the bright moon that glimmered through the window, but whatever, Mac had spent a full hour lying in bed and sleep still eluded him.
Somehow, just knowing he was the only human being in the big old house made it seem
lonelier.
He had never
minded solitude befo
re, in fact had often sought it, b
ut tonight the empty house was really getting on his nerves.

He rolled over and looked at the luminous dial on his alarm clock.
Eleven-forty.
Geez, he usually didn
’t hit the sack until after mid
night.
This small town life must be getting to him.
Everything in town had shut down hours ago.
All the good citizens of Port
Bellmont
had long since
locked
themselves away for the night.

Too depressed to read o
r watch TV, Mac had gone to bed
hoping for the sweet oblivion of sleep.
But that had been a mistake.
He realized now that he had enough adrenaline pumping through his body to keep a grown man awake for at least a week.

He got out of bed.
It was no use.
He could
lay
there all night and not get a minute’s sleep with all that was on his mind.
He paced restlessly about the room, settling at last in an overstuffed chair.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget that last moment with Cassie at the pet shop.
The accusing expression in her eyes pained him as much now as it had then.
He could understand how she felt, but couldn’t she had have trusted him at least enough to let him explain?

Not that he had an explanation.
He knew
he hadn’t written that article
but how could he prove it to her?
He worked for the rag, didn’t he?
And it was his by-line.
No denying that either.
But he sure as hell had
n’t filed that muckraking story, a
nd apparently, no one knew who had.
When he’d called Noah Peters, his editor, he had expected an explanation along with a good dressing down for not filing a story yet.
But instead of telling him who had called in the story, Noah had congratulated him on the good work and asked when he should expect the next segment.

“What do you mean the next segment?
I never filed that first one!” Mac nearly yelled into the phone.

“What are you talking about?
Hey, you aren’t drinking again, are you?
Did you have a blackout or something?
Of course you filed the story.
The fax was waiting on my desk when I got in to work Thursday morning.”

“Fax?
Since when have I ever faxed you a story, Noah?
You know as well as I do that I always call my stories in.
I got in the habit on my first job and never saw any reason to change.
I still don’t.
And this is a good example of why I feel that way.
Anybody could have sent that fax to you under my by-line.”

“But the style was yours.
And hell, the story was just what we’d been waiting for.
And it came in just in time to make the deadline.
So we decided to run with it.
We didn’t bother to change a single word.
Hey, man, you ought to be proud.
That story is guaranteed to hang the whole lot of ‘
em
!”

Mac hung up the ph
one after warning his editor
not
to
run anything more from him unless he called it in himself.
Instead of answering his questions, the phone call had only confused him more.
Someone had filed the story under his name.

But who would do such a thing, a
nd why?

Cassie’s reaction to the story had hit Mac hard.
Although he should have expected it, he had hoped she would be more understanding.
She said she could see into his heart.
Why hadn’t she at least tried?

He stood, far too agitated to remain still another moment.

Okay, so it looked bad.
There was no denying the st
ory,
n
or
the fact that it had been filled with facts that she had supplied him.
Given the circumstances, just about anyo
ne would have believed the worst
about him.