The Witch's Stone (28 page)

He sighed. “Right, I’ll go look. You wait here.”

“Okay,” she said, without arguing. She was only half paying attention anyway. That smell. That horrible smell. “Do you smell that?”

Caid hesitated a moment before answering. “Aye. I do smell something.”

“What is it?”

“I dinnae know. Wait here, all right?” 

Caid slipped away, leaving her alone. After a minute, the lights overhead flashed on. She squinted against the sudden brightness.

“Found the lights,” he called, as her gaze traveled from one side of the bar to the other. The chairs had been set on the tables, seats down, legs pointed in the air. The wood on the bar gleamed. The scent of some kind of cleaning product mingled with the other, indefinable odor.

Everything looked neat and orderly except for a table near the far back corner. It sat too close to the one next to it, as if the table had been shoved over. Only one of the four chairs remained on the surface, the other three lay scattered on the floor.

Hillary moved toward the small mess, her stomach sinking to her feet. As she grew closer, that stink grew stronger. The sight of two limp legs jutting out from between a booth and the table stopped her in her tracks.

Now, she recognized that smell. Even before she saw the bright, red puddle spreading out over the shiny plank floor.

Hillary swayed a little as the blood rushed from her head and her stomach heaved. She gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached while she waited for the nausea to pass.

When she thought she could speak without emptying her stomach onto her shoes she called, “Caid.” But her voice came out as little more than an inaudible squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Caid!”

Hillary backed away from the wide, staring eyes and slack mouth. Away from the moving puddle of blood that seemed to chase the toes of her battered sneakers.

Was one of his ears missing?

OhGod!OhGod!OhGod!

Her breath came too fast and her heart echoed in her head. Closing her eyes tightly, she struggled for control. She started counting backward from one hundred.

“Hill.” The hand on her shoulder made her jump. Her eyes popped open and a small scream burst from her lips before she clamped down on it.  “Good Christ.”

“I can’t look anymore,” she whispered.

“No, dinnae.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her with him toward Willie’s office. “Come with me. We need to call the police.”

Hillary nodded. She couldn’t have argued if she’d wanted to. “Who could have done that?”

“I dinnae know, but I’m starting to believe Willie might have been telling the truth after all.”

Hillary woke slowly, facing the window. Outside, the dreary gray fog matched her bleak mood. She reached for her watch on the nightstand. Half past noon.

Caid slept on next to her, unperturbed by her movements. She wasn’t surprised they’d slept so late. It had been nearly dawn before Bristol had let them leave the pub with the promise that he would visit later today. Both she and Caid had hardly spoken when they’d returned to Glendon House. Perhaps he’d felt the same desolate fear she had. When they’d climbed into bed, he’d wrapped his arms around her tight, and she’d clung to him until sleep had at last claimed her.

The memory of Willie’s slack expression, the gaping wound where his ear had been flashed inside her head, and she shuddered. She wouldn’t sleep anymore today.

Sliding out from under the blankets, she moved carefully so as not to disturb Caid. She needn’t have worried. He barely budged.

After she showered and dressed, she went downstairs to the kitchen and started the coffee. As she waited for it to brew, she peered outside at the thick, swirling fog. Anyone could be out there. Watching. Waiting. A shiver raced up her spine and she looked away.  She needed do something useful and productive, to occupy her mind and keep the memories of last night at bay.

She gathered her laptop and journals, then set herself up on the small table before the hearth. After lighting a fire in the fireplace, she poured herself a cup of coffee and settled back on the couch with Roderick’s journals.

She flipped through the pages until she found mention of a death, then scribbled the details on the pad next to her. As she read, her insides tightened, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fitting together.

The little boy who drowned was actually noted quite early in the first volume. Then a woman Roderick described as a spinster had died of a slow illness. This was right around the time he’d met Anne. A drunk trampled by his own horse. A man robbed and murdered as he returned home from market. Another widow who fell down a flight of stairs.
Doesn’t that sound familiar?
And the Fraser’s who’d burned to death in a fire.

There were some differences compared to the strange string of accidents that had plagued Culcraig recently, but there were similarities too. Coincidence?

Anne Black had claimed to have a special gift; the ability to see and remove curses for those willing to pay. A lone woman, trying to survive with her child. Did she sometimes need to prove her powers? Did filling the village of Culcraig with fear work to bring her an income? Had she killed people to establish a place of power within the community?

But something had backfired. She’d gone too far and the village had turned against her.

Hillary nibbled absently at the ragged nail on her pinky finger. How did Anne’s story connect to Willie and Agnes? Or did it? Was she grasping at straws?

She lifted the final volume of Roderick’s journals and skimmed through the entries, looking for Anne’s name and any hint that might explain how what had happened to Anne one hundred years ago tied into what was happening to Culcraig right now.

It has been two weeks since wee Roddy passed. My heart aches when I think of his still body in the cradle. Only two weeks.

This morning when I woke, Janet was already up and about. I must admit, I was relieved to find her out of bed. She had not left her room since we lost the bairn. I usually have little patience for Janet’s foolishness, but for this I did not push. Perhaps I should have.

I searched the house for her and could not find her anywhere. Eventually, I discovered her in the stable. She had hanged herself. I fear it is a sight I shall not ever forget. I pity her. She may have been a weak creature, but she loved the babe and I can not bring myself to blame her.

I know who is responsible.

Even if the courts can not see Anne Black for the murderous bitch that she is, I know what she is capable of, and I will see that she pays.

“Have you been up long?”

The sound of Caid’s voice gave Hillary a start. She hadn’t realized she’d been wound so tight. “I don’t know,” she murmured, without lifting her gaze from the faded print.

“What are you doing there?”

“Transcribing the third volume.”

“Ah, more musings from old Roddy.”

There was a gentle lilt of humor in his voice. If she looked up, she’d no doubt see that half smile curving his lips. She didn’t look up. And she refused to acknowledge the slight elevation in her heart rate.

“What have you learnt from the man so far?”

“That Culcraig didn’t hang a witch in 1915. They executed a con artist and possibly a murderess.”

“You’ve had a busy morning,” Caid said, forcing his voice to remain light. The sight of those blasted journals and Hillary poring over them left him with a cold sense of dread. His hands itched with the urge to snatch them from her and toss them into the fire.

He’d been awake awhile, lying in bed, the steady throb of his leg a clear indication of the damp outside without even having to look out the window for confirmation. His mind spun like a child’s top with memories of Willie’s dead, glazed eyes--and his own black terror.

The man had been savagely stabbed, Joan was in the hospital after nearly burning to death and the same killer had been in this house alone with Hillary. Had knocked her unconscious, could have killed her, and there was nothing Caid could have done to stop it.

For a moment, his heart ceased to beat as panic’s fist took hold and squeezed. He had to do something, the right thing. He couldn’t let anything happen to her.

He’d told Bristol his suspicions about his father last night, and while the man had said he’d speak to James, he hadn’t appeared overly impressed with Caid’s theory. The cop didn’t even believe Agnes had been murdered, so why would he?

 Willie’s brutalized image flashed in Caid’s head. Could his father really have done that? Stabbed the man with such vicious glee, mutilated the flesh by severing an ear? His stomach lurched.

He’d never loved his father, not the way he should have, even as child. The man had been a huge presence in their home, both brilliant and righteous like a God, filling Caid with a mix of terror and awe. Punishments were quick and hard, praise rare, and Caid had grown up believing he could never achieve such greatness.

Yet it had all been a façade, a mask hiding a weak, pompous bully.

But was his father a killer?

Caid helped himself to a cup of coffee, then added more wood to the fire. Maybe the blaze would ease the ache in his leg and warm his icy innards.

“Are you all right?” Hillary asked.

He turned to face her, surprised she’d dragged her attention away from his dead relative long enough to notice his limp. “Aye. It’s only the damp.”

“I didn’t mean your leg, but if it hurts, I’ll get the fire going.”

“You’ll no’. I’m no’ an invalid. My leg is merely stiff. A little activity is just the thing.”

She shrugged. “If you say so. Are you thinking about your father? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I dinnae wantae talk about him.”

She’d surprised him last night, when he’d revealed his fears about his father. After he’d finished telling Bristol, he’d expected some sort of admonishment for not telling her, first. Instead she’d merely asked, “Do you really think he could have done that?”

“I dinnae know,” he’d admitted. She had taken his hand and squeezed, but let the subject drop.

Now, under her probing stare, cool sweat dotted his skin while he awkwardly tried to reposition the logs with the small iron shovel. “You know, that poker would be helpful the now?”

She snorted. “Don’t even joke.”

He sat down in the overstuffed armchair and propped the foot of his sore leg on the table behind her computer, her gaze fixed on his face. He looked away, snatched up his cup and drank, the coffee bitter on his tongue.

“Well, were you going to tell me what you’ve learned?” he asked, sharper than he meant to.

She frowned. “You’re in a mood this morning.”

“I’m no’.” Maybe he was.

She eyed him for a moment, then held out a pad of yellow-lined paper. “This is a list of strange deaths Roderick mentions in his journals, at least as far as I’ve read.”

“Right,” he said, once he’d finished reading.

She pulled back the top sheet. “This is a list of all the people who have died that Joan told us about.”

Caid scanned the page. Once he was done, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “There’s some similarities, I’ll admit, but it could be just coincidence.”

“I would have said the same thing, but Willie and whoever he was working with wanted these books enough to kill for them.”

Again, the urge to snatch the journals away from her almost overwhelmed him. “Are you thinking someone is mimicking Anne’s murders? Are we even sure Anne killed anyone?”

“Yes, and possibly.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. But if the answer is anywhere, it’s here.” She lifted the journal.

“Is that yer polite way of telling me to piss off and let you read?”

“Kind of. Sorry.”

“Dinnae be sorry. I have things to do too, you know.” He stood, ignoring the pain in his leg.

She reached for his hand. “You don’t have to go. You just…can’t speak to me.”

“I wasnae joking. I’ve my own work to do. No’ the least of which is ridding the basement of your furry friends.”

Hillary shuddered and wrinkled her nose. “Good. Just thinking about rats down there gives me the creeps.”

Caid left the kitchen and went out the front to his car. He opened the boot and lifted the bag with the poison he’d bought yesterday. As he started back toward the house, something flickered in the garden. A flash of light. He turned sharply and squinted to peer through the swirling gray mist.

Nothing.

Apprehension tickled the base of his skull. He started forward, toward the light and away from the car.

“Is someone there?” he called, a little surprised that he’d managed to sound so authoritative when all the saliva in his mouth had gone dry.

The flash again. A round, white light, weaving through the fog before vanishing once again. 

The overgrown grass tangled around his ankles as if even the grounds of Glendon House wanted to keep him from following. He stumbled over a broken flagstone, nearly losing his balance, but managed to catch himself before tumbling forward.

When he looked up, the light was gone and so was the outline of the house and the cars. Only wet, pale fog surrounded him, as if he’d been enveloped within a cloud.

His pulse beat fast inside his ears. But he clamped down on his growing panic. He hadn’t walked far. If he turned and walked in the exact opposite direction, he’d no doubt find himself back at his car or the house.

He turned to do just that, but froze. Footsteps whispered over the grass. A shudder rippled up his spine.

He wasn’t alone.

“Who’s there?” he shouted.

Silence greeted him. An eerie, unnatural silence. Not a bird chirped, not a forest creature stirred. Even the air seemed still.  

Then a woman’s laugh, shrill and jagged like the tinkling of broken glass, cut through the quiet, turning his blood cold.

Caid started back, the way he’d come. The laughter stopped, and once again he found himself immersed in the unnatural silence. He quickened his pace. He wasn’t quite running, but the next closest thing. His breath sounded ragged in his ears and his leg ached miserably.