Tales of the Witch (8 page)

“You got it, boss,” he said, and he marched smartly out of the mayor’s office to notify Ernie and collect more men.

Conrad prodded his father with an elbow and Mr. Harder, Sr., cleared his throat. “Well, I hate to bother you, Mark, but you know, we haven’t closed on this property yet. Strictly speaking, the owners have every right—”

Before he could finish speaking, Skip wrote out a check to ‘cash’, for $10,000. Word had trickled back to Skip through the sub-contractors and thus through Ernie that Mr. Harder himself was the absent unnamed owner, but Skip felt no need to mention it. He handed the check to Mr. Harder, Sr. “As an extra bonus,” Skip said, “for the property owners, for their kind cooperation. This doesn’t go into escrow, and it doesn’t apply to the purchase price. Do you think it’ll help their patience any?” Now Skip had $10,450 left of his original bankroll and owed the bank an astronomical amount of money.

“Oh,” Mr. Harder, Sr., said. He laughed nervously, taken aback. “Well, hey…” He slid it into an inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Thank you, Mr. Daniels,” he said with dignity. He and Conrad left the office smiling. Skip shook hands with the remaining board members and left. Everybody was happy.

Ernie returned to work the next day in a wheelchair, defying his doctor’s command to rest. Two hard driving, back breaking weeks passed, during which time the foundation was filled, the shell of the house was finished, the stucco was beginning to be applied, work on the fence circling the property (with electronic sensors in the gate and an intercom system) was completed, and the terra cotta roofing had arrived. Drywallers and decorators swarmed the interior.

Best of all, the plumbers finished hooking up the septic system, which perked up the entire exhausted crew. Port-o-lets can become downright uncivilized when accommodating so many users.

But when the well was dug, and a pump rigged to provide a convenient on-site source of water for the men, the water tasted so odd that the men avoided it. Several of the crew worried what Phantom would think of the taste, but Skip had no time to deal with it. He just resumed deliveries of bottled water, and moved his attention to other, more urgent, matters.

Summer arrived and the days warmed enough to become uncomfortable for the hard working crews. One sweating plasterer was filling a thermos at the stand of icy bottled water when the skidding, gravel-flinging arrival of Skip’s truck startled him. He froze in astonishment as Skip sprinted towards him and knocked his thermos to the ground.

“Did you drink any of that water?” Skip shouted into the plasterer’s face.

“Uh…no,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Who did?” Skip turned and screamed to the halted, staring work crew scattered all over the large house, “Did any of you drink this water?”

It turned out that a few had. Skip called an ambulance, shouting instructions into his car phone. A few of the men began rubbing their bellies and grimacing. By the time the ambulance arrived, eight men were vomiting and needed no urging to go to the hospital. Skip drove the overflow from the crowded ambulance in his truck. He looked ten years older by the time they pulled up to St. Charles Hospital’s Emergency entrance.

The waiting attendants whisked the by now seriously ailing men in to the doctors who’d been warned and were standing by. Then Skip turned around and drove back to those waiting at the building site. They wanted some answers. So did he.

He pulled in right behind the homicide detective and the constable. The detective just gazed at Skip and shook his head. He sent a water sample in to the lab for immediate testing, taped up the remaining bottles, then left the constable in charge. After all, no one had died. Yet. This time.

Ernie, who was getting around on crutches now, sat down heavily on the hood of Skip’s pickup truck. The men gathered around. A white faced Skip stared at the bewildered men.

“How’d you know?” Ernie finally asked, voicing one of the main questions on everybody’s mind. The other questions were ‘who’, ‘how’, and ‘why,’ but not many of them really thought Skip, who they all liked, would know the answers to these.

Skip’s pale lips moved before any words emerged. When they did come out, they sounded parched and shaken. “I visited the site this morning early, way before the rest of you were due. Took a drink. It felt odd in my stomach. Traveling with Phantom so much, you learn to recognize bad water…stuff like that. Made myself throw it up. Figured you guys didn’t need to get sick, too—came as fast as I…” he was unable to finish. He swallowed hard. It’d taken him the entire drive from his house to the property to dream up that explanation.

He looked around him. The men seemed convinced. Before they moved back towards their unfinished work, a few punched him sympathetically in the bicep, which brought a choked feeling to Skip’s throat that had nothing to do with dust.

Just then, the constable ambled over towards Skip and Ernie, a troubled look on his face. “Got it over the car radio. The lab nailed it soon enough to save the guys, thank God…sodium triouroaetate.”

“Uh, what?” asked Skip.

“Pest control. Rat killer. Used to call it ‘Tri-Zan.’ All the waterfront industries used it to control the rat population back in the early ’50’s, until it got banned,” said the constable. “Pathologist said they hadn’t seen the stuff in decades. But with the location, and the symptoms, an old guy in the lab thought of it right away. Lucky he did.”

Ernie explained to Skip, “This used to be a big shipbuilding region. Where there’s water and ships, there’s rats. I remember now that the stuff damn near killed off the whole town, years ago. Real disaster. Takes just a tiny bit…”

The constable nodded. “You probably saved the lives of every one of those guys who drank any. Odorless, and practically tasteless.”

Involuntarily, the three of them looked up at the sun nearly directly above them. It would be noon in less than an hour, and the air palpitated with heat. Everyone would have taken some water at one time or another.

“My God. My God.” Skip sat down hard on the hood next to Ernie, his eyes huge with horror. After a few moments, he stood up again. “Send ’em all home, Ernie.”

Ernie struggled to his feet, fumbled for his crutches. “What?”

“You heard it, send ’em home. Now. Stop the work.”

“You can’t do that, we got a killer schedule as it is. We can’t lose—”

Just then, a caravan of cars pulled in behind Skip’s truck, led by the battered Chevrolet driven by the homicide detective. Doors slammed and a crowd of people bustled towards them, joined, Skip was startled to see, by the witch, who walked briskly in from the fringe of trees that separated her property from Phantom’s. He waited uneasily. Had they all figured it out? Was his cover blown? The crew, seeing the new arrivals, stopped work again and drifted curiously towards Ernie and Skip.

Ernie had his crutches under control now and he stood at Skip’s side. The men gathered behind Ernie. To Skip’s surprise, at the witch’s arrival, Ernie tipped his hat to her like a guy in an old movie. “Ma’am,” he heard Ernie murmur to her. She nodded back, rewarding Ernie with a wry smile, but said nothing.

Mr. Arsdale, the banker, who was at the front of the crowd with the detective, started barking at Skip like a nervous terrier: “We heard about the ruckus up at the hospital from Dr. Villas. He said mass murder was taking place here. We won’t—” The detective stopped Mr. Arsdale with a pained look and an upraised palm. The banker subsided immediately, but cast round-eyed appeals among the other Trustees for support. He didn’t get any.

The mayor and every Village Trustee except Dr. Villas were present, plus some others Skip didn’t know.

Now the homicide detective asked in a polite, but firm, manner how ‘Mark’ had come to the conclusion ahead of everybody else that the bottled water was poisoned. The group hovered close, anxious to hear. Skip repeated his story.

When he finished, the mayor led the shouted protests to the detective that ‘Mark’s’ explanation was a good one, made sense, and didn’t he think—the detective interrupted the mayor’s suggestion of what to think and said, “We’re going to have to close down the activity here until some explanation is found for this water contamination.”

“Yes,” said Ms. Bellwood, the bookstore lady, her gentle voice unusually sharp in her vehemence. “No lives are worth any amount of financial benefit. We must stop this…this…” she halted, speechless with anxiety.

“You got it,” said Skip in a flat voice. She exhaled and smiled gratefully at him.

Some people were unhappy to hear that. Many in the crowd shrieked reasons at the detective explaining why it was a bad idea. The detective remained as polite, but as firm, as before.

“We can’t afford—” bellowed the mayor.

“—we can’t afford to risk any more lives,” interrupted the detective. “I’m considering this poisoning intentional until I find out different. If a man hadn’t already lost his life here, and Ernie nearly lost his leg, it’d be a little different. But as it stands—”

The clamor was deafening.

“We’re willing to work,” shouted a few of the sub-contractors, earning Skip’s gratitude, but increasing his anxiety.

“We’re not idiots, we just won’t—” began Ernie.

“—won’t do what? Could you have predicted that animal trap? The rifle bullet?” The detective looked at the crew with compassion. He knew that many of them hadn’t had work for months. This project was invaluable to them. To the whole village. He sighed. “I know it’s hard, but surely you can see that the men here are endangered. Until we find out what that danger is, they’ve got to stay away.”

Ernie subsided, but looked frustrated.

“But they’re working to a deadline,” wailed Mr. Harder, Sr., flushing with the heat in his three piece suit.

The detective shot him an uncomplimentary look without bothering to answer.

“I think,” began Mr. Drexel, immediately reducing everyone to respectful attention, “I think that the detective’s right, Mayor Harper. I think we can do no less for these men. I’m sure this Phantom will understand. He seems to be a compassionate enough fellow, doing all these benefits.”

Mrs. Risk suddenly spoke, startling everyone. They’d nearly forgotten she was there. “I believe Mr. Drexel expresses a valid observation about Phantom. In addition, Detective Hahn has the authority to enforce his request, unless I’m mistaken. He’s being gracious, but I don’t think you’re actually being given a choice. Am I correct, Michael?”

The detective nodded. “That’s the way it is, folks. The lady’s right. Break it up now. You men get your gear together. I know you’ll want your tools in case you get another job, and I’m going to have to inspect everything taken from the site.”

“Jeez,” muttered Ernie’s assistant, but he began collecting tools.

The crowd climbed back into their cars, murmuring among themselves, wondering what was going to happen and how long the hold-up would last. Detective Michael Hahn turned to thank the witch for her help, but discovered she’d already gone.

Skip was deeply relieved at the detective’s action. He walked slowly over to the deck that hung over the beach, then stood there gazing back at the unfinished house. His plans were in shambles. He needed to think. For no reason he could explain, he then turned and looked to the East.

As if she were an apparition conjured by his thoughts, a young woman with wildly curling long dark hair stepped up onto the deck, startling him so completely by her sudden appearance that he was forced to clutch at the deck’s railing to keep from falling backwards. While the thumping of his heart subsided, he stared, taking in the lush figure barely confined by the white silk shirt, tight jeans, and slim leather cowboy boots she wore.

“She sent me to fetch you,” the apparition announced.

“Uh—who—?”

She shifted impatiently. “Mrs. Risk.” At Skip’s continued blank look, she added, with a roll of large, lovely eyes, “The witch?”

Skip blinked at her. Sighing with exasperation, she grabbed his hand and pulled gently. “C’mon,” she said, as if to a small child. He came.

The young woman who’d been introduced to Skip merely as ‘Rachel’ settled the tray of drinks on a low cut, highly polished tree stump and handed Skip his beer.

“The letter told me about the poisoned water,” Skip said as he accepted the tall frosted glass. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with his arm and continued staring down at the grass on which he sat, remembering. The surrounding trees rustled in the breeze as if they were whispering about the situation.

Mrs. Risk crossed long legs, draping her gauzy black skirt in graceful folds across them. She poured herself and Rachel glasses of glittering gold wine, cradled hers in both hands, and leaned back in the rope hammock to listen. Rachel pulled an old aluminum lawn chair closer to Skip and sat.

“And because the other letters had been—been accurate, I drove like a maniac out to the site, and, as you know, was just in time to stop the—the…” He seemed unable to go on.

“The carnage, so to speak,” she finished for him.

Rachel made a small unidentifiable noise.

He nodded, his eyes sick with memory.

“Please relax, Mr. Daniels. You’ve averted a tragedy. Also, your anonymous letter writer demanded that you stop all work, and you have, so you’ve no reason to expect further atrocities. Isn’t that correct?”

Skip nodded again.

“The letters—tell me about them. Were they typed? Were they mailed from Wyndham? That sort of detail might tell us a great deal.”

Skip shrugged. “I never noticed. They were sent to me at a Post Office Box I hired. Just about everybody in Wyndham has the address. But here’s the one about the water.” He pulled a much folded envelope out of his back jeans pocket. “You can have it, if you want. They were all just like that one, I think. I threw the others in the trash.”

She took it from him and examined the grubby wadded paper. “So much for television detective shows teaching fingerprint and forensic technologies,” she said, sighing as she unfolded it.

“The first one came the day after I agreed to buy the property. Said if I didn’t want ‘death and disaster’, I had to leave that parcel of land alone. Buy someplace else. I didn’t pay attention, you know? Figured it was some nut getting his kicks. I got a second one, same message, and pitched it, too. Then right after the next one, that warned he was gonna hurt somebody, the carpenter was shot. I thought of this guy first thing, but the cops said it was likely an accident. I got kinda jumpy then, but the cops were so convincing…