A Witch's Tale (16 page)

“I don’t think he can himself,” Mac responded.
“After I left you yesterday, I bumped into him at Pete’s Bar, down the street.
Man, was he plastered.
Reminded me of my
good old days.”

“Alan?
Down at Pete’s?
I wouldn’t have thought he would ever go in there.
I’ve never seen him drink anything but wine.
And believe
me,
he only drinks the very best.
I can’t imagine Pete’s stock measuring up to Alan’s standards.”

“I don’t imagine Alan cared much what he was drinking yesterday.
All he wanted
was to get as drunk as he could
as fast as he could.
And, all in all, I’d say he accomplished his purpose quite admirably.”

Cassie pou
red herself a cup of coffee and
sat down in the chair opposite Mac, all traces of amusement erased from her face.

“He’s taking mother’s arrest hard, isn’t he?
He must really be beating himself up for not having stayed with her that night.”

Mac worried about how much he should tell Cassie about Alan’s drunken ramblings.
Did she really need to hear that even the man who professed undying love for Myra believed her guilty of the grisly murders?
But in the end
he realized he must be completely truthful with her.
The
re must be no more lies or half-
truths between them.

“I don
’t know which has hit him worse, t
he fact that if he had stayed with her
,
your mother would have had an
alibi for Luke Osborn’s murder, o
r that he believes that she actually did it.”

“What?
But why?”

Cassie let her
cup of coffee drop to the table
as if the weight of it were too much to bear.
Every trace of color drained from her face.

“We’ve lost Alan too?”
The words were spoken just above a whisper.
“Who can we count on now if even Alan believes that horrible lie?”

Mac rose from his seat, came around the table and wrapped Cassie in his embrace.
Holding her close, he vowed,

“You can count on me.”

Chapter 8

The judge was moving fast and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why.
Only two days had passed since Luke Osborn’s murder and the streets of Port
Bellmont
were already swarming with even more reporters, photographers and crime groupies.
Clearly, it was Judge Davenport’s intention to speed up the judicial process as much as possible in order to return the town to it
s usual tranquil
ity.

Mac glanced at his watch.
Twelve forty-five.
Myra’s arraignment was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes.
He reached for his notebook and checked to make sure he had plenty of lead in his mechanical pencil.
The courtroom bench was so crowded with spectators that his small movements forced his body to make contact with Cassie’s, diverting his attention away from the job at hand.

The simple act of touching her, even here in the courtroom, caused a wave of emotion to course through him,
nearly overwhelming
him
with overlapping
feelings - desire, fear, anger - n
ot to mention a nearly overpowering sense of guilt.

Damn!
What had he gotten himself into?
He wanted to protect Cassie and to love her.
He wanted to tell her she had nothing to worry about, that surely the judge would see the terrible travesty that was being committed against her mother.
But deep in his gut he was terrified that not only would Myra be accused, but somehow this woman he had come to love with all his heart would be implicated in the horrible crimes.

The fact that he even gave credence to that fear
filled him with even more self-
loathing.
Allowing
himself
to entertain such thoughts about Cassie was a betrayal to her and everything she stood for.
To be implicated meant that somehow she could be perceived as someone who would aid or even participate in the most heinous crimes imaginable.

Impossible!
But as certain as he was of her innocence, he hadn’t a clue as to how he could protect her from the prejudices and fears of others.

A sudden stirring of the crowd interrupted Mac’s thoughts as the door at the side of the room opened and Myra was led into the courtroom.
The murmur rose as she and her attorney took their places at the table that faced the judge’s bench.
It continued building in intensity until the bailiff’s
strident voice commanded all to rise as Judge Marcus P. Davenport strode purposefully towards his bench.

Cassie’s heart skipped a beat at the first sight of her mother.
Myra looked so pale, so drawn.
This terrible ordeal had aged her by at least ten years.
Cassie fought back tears as she watched her mother walk the few steps to her chair, head held high and her back ramrod straight.
But her daughter recognized the stance as one of defiance, not confidence.
Gone was the usual bounce to her mother’s step.
Eyes that usually sparkled with the joy of life had lost their luster.

Cassie’s heart sank as she realized just how very frightened her mother must be.
That realization more than anything else brought home to Cassie just how precarious her mother’s position was.
Without thinking what she was doing, she reached for Mac’s hand, gripping it so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Mac glanced at her, wincing at the pained expression he saw in her face.
He slipped his notebook back into his pocket with his free hand.
His memory would just have to suffice, he decided
,
as he realized how desperately she needed to hold onto him.

Although he understood Cassie’s need to be here for her mother, offering Myra support in the only way possible, Mac would have been a great deal happier if she had opted to acquiesce to Sheriff Whitaker’s request and stay away from the proceedings.
When word of the second murder had hit the streets, every rag-tailed, so-called newsman in the co
untry - no, make that the
worl
-
had descended on Port
Bellmont
.
And for every member of the working press, at least three hard core religious nut cases had poured into town, fill
ing every available room
.

They were all a bunch of vultures, Mac decided
,
as he glanced warily about the courtroom.
The room was packed with them.
The reporters were the most offensive to
Mac,
their faces distorted with their desire get the story.
Every damn one of them would sell his soul to get their talons into one of the witches.
He found it too painful to acknowledge, even to himself, that up until he had met Cassie, he had been the worst of the lot.

Mac nearly groaned aloud when he thought of how very vulnerable Cassie would be to their brutal questions if he weren’t there to protect her.
His fingers tightened around
hers involuntarily as his concern for her forced a chill of apprehension to race through him.

They would destroy her if they could and never give a moment’s thought to what they had done.
Hadn’t he been guilty of just such recklessness himself?
Hadn’t he pushed to get answers when he knew in his heart he was hurting the person he questioned?

Suddenly the crush of guilt was overwhelming.
Why hadn’t he seen what he was doing?
Why hadn’t he cared?

He believed to his very core in the need for a free press and all it represented, but when was that need more important than the rights and sensitivities of the individual?

His thoughts were interrupted as Cassie nudge
d
him with her elbow.
Leaning closer to him, she whispered, “Look, over there in the corner.
It’s Alan.
Oh, my, doesn’t he look dreadful?”

Mac craned his neck, peering through the crowd until he spotted the editor of Port
Bellmont’s
newspaper.
Alan’s appearance was nothing less than shocking.
He looked more like the town drunk than the sophisticated, urbane gentleman Mac had met just a few days before.

The shock of white hair that had always been so perfectly groomed now appeared as if it hadn’t seen a blow dryer in weeks, much less shampoo.
His clothes looked as if he had slept in them for several days.
His complexion had a sallow, ugly grayish tone to it.
Bloodshot eyes appeared to gaze inward, with little or no interest in the drama that was about to enfold in the small courtroom.

Mac’s first instinct was to feel disgust for the man who had professed to be the accused woman’s friend, a man who had ambitions of being more than a friend.
How quickly he had turned his back on the woman he supposedly loved.
Had he even once considered that she might be in
nocent, t
hat the evidence might have been fabricated?
Surely he must realize that the head of a witch’s coven might have powerful enemies who could be capable of such a horrible plan.

The anger grew in Mac until it was all he could do to stay in his seat.
Every fiber in his body wanted to go to the man, to shake him, to shout at him, to do whatever it took to get rid of his own rage.

He refused to consider that his anger might be misplaced, that Myra might have actually done the things of which she was accused.
To admit that was to admit that his sweet
Cassie might too be involved and that was something he couldn’t allow himself to imagine.

But his analytical mind forced him to question if his rage was directed at Alan for his betrayal of the woman he supposedly loved, or at himself.
Was it possib
le that deep down inside
, eating away like a cancer, was the thought that he could be wrong, that he had been caught up and trapped in a mystical web of deceit?
Was it even remotely possible that he was being manipulated by a group of women clever enough to hide their evil intentions?

His mind recalled the evening at Harmony House when he had met the other members of Cassie’s coven.
They had been so charming, so real.
Had it all been a carefully planned ruse, executed with the sole purpose of gaining his trust?

He felt Cassie stiffen at his side.
His first thought was that she had reached into his mind once again.
If she had, she would not have been too pleased with what she had seen there, he thought, as a wave of anger swept over him.
The anger was at
himself
for possibly having been taken in, but it was quickly followed by a fresh rush of guilt.

What
could he
be thinking, he asked himself as he felt Cassie tremble beside him as the judge took the bench and
the proceedings began.
Just look at her!
Surely there was no one more innocent and trusting than his sweet little Cassie.
At no time had he seen her, or for that matter any of her sister Wiccans, be anything other than kind and caring.
His natural ability to view mankind and see into its ugliness would surely have alerted him to such manipulation.

Unless they had managed to somehow take control of his mind, his fevered brain taunted him.
And what better way could they have chosen?
What could have thrown him off the story as easily as Cassie’s tender loving?

He felt as if a war was being waged in his mind and he was powerless to stop it.
He believed in Cassie, and because of her he believed in Myra.
Cassie stood for all the good he had spent his life searching for.
He believed that with all his heart.
And yet the ugly thoughts kept coming, bombarding him relentlessly.

Tension began to build within
his body until he wasn’t sure if he would be able to see the proceedings through.
Clenching his teeth, he tried with all his might to force his mind back to the business at hand.
He was a reporter, damn it!
It was damn near
time he started acting like one.

Training his eyes on the judge, he forced himself to listen to Myra’s lawyer’s droning voice.
His professional instincts kicked in at last, as he found himself once again noticing minute details that he would later bring to mind, details which would add flavor to the story he would file.

His attention was suddenly and unfathomably drawn to Alan
Boatright
.
For the briefest of moments his entire being was caught and held captive by Alan’s gaze.
An overwhelming sense of horror gripped Mac in that instant that he could neither explain nor understand.
Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the sensation was gone.
Mac continued to gaze at Alan, but soon realized there was nothing left to see.
The eyes that stared blankly across the crowded room were the most empty, hopeless eyes Mac had ever seen.