by Deirdre Dore
Ninny rang up two jars of solstice tea, shaking her head at the idea of such a thing, but seemed happy enough to take the money from her customer, whom Raquel vaguely recognized as an assistant at the local college.
“Ninny, do you remember if any of the Havens had an affair with someone from Abraham’s family?” Raquel asked during a lull in customers, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard above the sound of chimes.
“Oh, yes, there has always been mixing in the families. All the families of Fate.”
“Did Abraham have a half brother named George who died in Vietnam?”
“So they tell us. I didn’t see the child but once or twice myself.”
“I saw a picture of him. He looked a little like Abraham, but not really. Brent thought he seemed familiar but couldn’t say why.”
“Well”—Ninny shrugged—“like I said, every family in town has a little bit of Haven, and we have a little of all of them, otherwise we stay too much to ourselves.”
Raquel sighed. “All right. It was worth a shot.”
Ninny shook her head at Raquel and braced her hands on the glass counter. “Tell me, honey, why don’t you just ask whatever it is you want to ask and quit beating around the bush?”
Raquel wasn’t about to ask in front of all these people, not something like this.
Ninny seemed to get the hint. “All right. Ro,” she called to her grand-niece, “Raquel and I are going for a little ride. Can you handle the store?”
Ro looked at the hourglass on the counter, one that was slowly trickling green sand from one glass orb to another.
“Will you be back before he gets here?”
Ninny looked uncertain, which was not an expression Raquel had ever seen on Ninny’s face before. “I’m not sure, darling, but you can handle it. Just remember what I taught you.”
“Before who gets here?” Raquel asked as they walked back to the storeroom.
“Oh,” Ninny said, waving a hand, “we’re expecting a visitor. He comes every year for the solstice. Jane even takes him into the woods for ceremonies sometimes. He’s a strange one.”
Raquel didn’t want to say it was like the pot calling the kettle black, but it was.
Ninny fetched her purse from the storeroom and spent a few minutes sorting through various jars, clearly looking for something in particular. She located what seemed to be a mason jar full of ash, giving it a satisfied swish before shoving it in her purse. Next she pulled what looked like a white tablecloth from a bin. She opened the back door and ushered Raquel through, shutting it behind them both.
“You like my new car?” Ninny asked Raquel, pointing to the Escape.
“Yeah, it’s great.” Raquel was frankly astonished that Ninny owned such a thing, it just didn’t seem to fit with what Raquel thought someone Ninny’s age would drive.
“Why don’t you drive? You know where we’re going better than I do.” The gravel crunched beneath the old woman’s tennis shoes as she walked to the passenger side.
Raquel swallowed. This was weird even for Ninny. “How do you know we’re going somewhere?”
“Just a feeling I have. You get feelings sometimes, don’t ya?”
“Yes.” Raquel eyed the woman, but she took the keys and moved to the driver’s side while Ninny sat in the passenger seat.
The oldies radio station was playing one of Gloria Belle’s songs, a version of “Summertime” she’d recorded early in her career. Creepy again, Raquel thought, and turned it off.
“Always like that one myself,” Ninny commented idly, lifting a foot so that it was sitting on the dashboard. “Some people don’t deserve beauty.” She patted Raquel on the leg. “And some people do. When are you going to introduce me to your young man?”
“I don’t have a young man.”
Ninny made a doubtful hmm in her throat. “I see. Well, perhaps you’re right. It’s better to be alone, less dramatic that way.”
“It’s not that.” Raquel shook her head. “Not all that. I need your help with something. I need to get Jane out of police custody. I need to talk to her.”
“Well, honey, why do you think I brought the ash and the white robe?”
26
BRENT CALLED HIS uncle that morning on his way through Fate to see if the old man was home, but George said he had a few errands to run and that he’d be back later.
Brent turned around, not wanting to go through his uncle’s things while the man wasn’t there, so he parked at the town library, not far from the circle in the center of town, close to the railroad tracks. He decided to see if the library had any other records about Fate, or about Summer; he knew that sometimes in small towns, the library was the storehouse for local history and culture.
The library was a squat brick building with a single glass door. White lettering on the door read THE FATE LIBRARY. It opened at one on Fridays, and it was only twelve thirty, so he decided to take a little stroll.
He walked through the parking lot and down a short path to a rusty gate. Behind the gate was a small graveyard that apparently had been there since before the Civil War. Many of its denizens had been forgotten, but Raquel had told him about the oak tree, where she and Tavey and Chris had set up their own remembrance of Summer.
He identified the tree immediately and made his way over the thick new grass that Tavey had planted to its base. The women had created a makeshift cross when they were kids and had written Summer’s name on it, draping ribbons and beads over it for decoration, though all the original decoration had faded through the years. A wilted bouquet of gerbera daisies sat next to the cross, and Brent knew the women had likely placed it there the previous Sunday.
He sat down in the grass next to the cross for a moment, thinking about what Raquel had said about Summer, that she had known every tree in the forest by the sound the rain made when it hit the leaves. Brent glanced up at the sky. It was cloudy for the first time in two weeks, and there was a slight breeze.
“You must have been pretty special, to get those three women to look for you all these years,” he told Summer. “I’m betting you’re someone I would’ve liked, maybe I’d even have made a film about you.”
The breeze twirled the ribbons on the cross cheerfully, and he fancied that Summer approved of the idea. “Perhaps I’ll make one anyway,” he decided, turning the idea over in his mind; he had asked Tavey for permission to record a documentary about her family, but maybe he’d just use what he had, borrow some of the material that his uncle had collected over the years about Summer, and make the film about her disappearance, and about the effect it had on the town. He took out his camera and carefully filmed the graveyard, the big tree, and the sad monument to the girl who, in her absence, shaped the lives of so many, including both Raquel and his uncle.
He wondered why Uncle George was so fascinated by Fate, by Summer, and the small twinge of uneasiness that had been plaguing him since this morning, when Raquel had said the name George Jones, bloomed into something more virulent.
George. Summer. Abraham. He thought about the maps he’d seen in his uncle’s study, thought about the dots labeled with numbers, about the map he’d made and shown to the group, the map of missing children.
His uncle George Mills had said that Jessica had come for a visit in 1986, but that she’d stolen some money and disappeared while he was sleeping. George was older, fat, and white. George had collected information about Fate for over a decade. George liked to go into the woods. George had loved and known Gloria Belle. George had known Charlie. George had been in the military. George Jones. The picture of the boy standing next to Abraham. He’d had Abraham’s nose; he still did.
Brent hurried out of the cemetery to his Jeep. He didn’t want to be right; it was almost too obvious if it was true. George had sat in plain sight all these years, right in the town of Fate. Surely Brent was wrong.
Brent drove quickly out of town and onto the country road that led to George’s house. The land here had once belonged to farmers, but it had been divided up and made into small estates. He dug his phone out of his pocket while he drove and tried to call Raquel, but his call went straight to voice mail.
He thought about calling Ryan, or Tavey or Chris, but since he wasn’t certain, he was just guessing, he decided to continue on without calling anyone else. I’ll just take a look, a quick look to make sure I’m just imagining things, he lied to himself. How could he not hope that his uncle wasn’t a drug-dealing sex trafficker? He’d known the man for years, stayed at his house, helped him hang Christmas lights, for God’s sake. How could his awkward, bumbling uncle possibly be this person?
His uncle’s Subaru was in the drive when Brent pulled up, even though he’d told Brent he was running errands in town. His uncle also never parked in the driveway for long; he always pulled the SUV into the garage.
Brent parked behind the Subaru. Part of him knew that what he was doing was stupid. If his uncle was possibly dangerous, Brent should call the police. He knew that, but this was his uncle George.
He did bring his camera, though, because if he was right—or wrong—he wanted to document the experience.
As usual, he went to the back gate, half expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t; the thumb lever on the handle pressed down easily, and the gate swung open.
He heard a thump from inside the house and hurried to the back door. It was locked, so he pulled his keys out of his pocket and located the right one. It turned easily, and Brent stepped inside the small mudroom and into the kitchen.
It smelled like blood. There was blood covering the island in the center of the kitchen, the floor, and drag marks leading out into the living room. Brent filmed it all without realizing that he’d lifted the camera to his face.
“Brent,” his uncle said from the entrance to the living room, and Brent lifted the camera until his uncle was completely in the frame, a small black gun held loosely in his hand. “You’re home.”
27
AROUND THREE O’CLOCK, Jane stood up from her crouched position on her bed and walked barefoot to the center of her room. She fidgeted, stomping her feet a little and chewing on her nails. There was a storm outside, she could feel it. It was almost Midsummer’s Eve. She’d asked if she could perform the ceremonies, but they had said no.
She was in a mental hospital uniform, which was really nothing more than a pair of pajamas and some slippers. It wasn’t fitting.
There was a knock, and one of her guards opened the door, looking inside first to locate her. When he saw her standing by the bed, he said something to someone outside in the hall. Jane tensed, wondering who was coming for her. George? Or someone else, as her nieces had suggested?
She was surprised to see Ninny come through the door, especially because Ninny was acting strange. She wore a white robe and was walking like an old woman, decrepit and slow. Ninny was an old woman, but she’d never walked like one.
Ninny wasn’t alone, though. Jane heard a woman’s voice in the hall. It sounded like Raquel, Gloria Belle’s daughter, the cop.
“All right,” she said. “Fifteen minutes. I understand.” Jane thought she must be talking to a nurse.
Raquel came into the room wearing her police uniform, but she was missing her gun. Jane thought the guards must have taken it.
“Okay, Ninny, we have to work quickly.”
“Are you getting me out of here?” Jane asked.
Raquel paused, her face suspicious. “Why do you want out of here, Jane?”
Jane frowned. Is she stupid? Isn’t it obvious why I want out of here?
“People are trying to kill you out there.” Raquel pointed in the general direction of outside. “I intended to come here and talk to you, if you were able to talk.” Raquel paused. “But that plan has changed a little. You seem better?” She made it a question.
“You mean I seem less crazy?” Jane asked, and Ninny cackled.
“Nope. Still crazier than a two-headed cottonmouth,” Ninny said with some glee. “But it looks like they’ve managed to get enough drugs in you that you can control yourself for the time being. Keep Circe in her cage, Jane, at least for a while.”
Jane glared at her. She and Ninny had never really gotten along, and Circe loathed Ninny with a passion.
“What do you want to talk about?” Jane asked. Is this really why Raquel is here? To ask me questions?
Raquel stayed by the door, looking out the small window to see if anyone was coming. Ninny fussed around Jane, braiding her hair to match Ninny’s until Jane wanted to smack her, but she didn’t because Ninny was her great-aunt, and not someone you smacked if you wanted to keep your teeth in your head.
“What’s the connection?” Raquel said simply. “I want to know the truth this time. Who is moving the drugs through our town? Who kidnapped Gloria Belle? Who is trying to silence you, Jane? And why? Where is Summer?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” Jane replied. “I don’t know if I can answer all those questions in fifteen minutes. Besides, we have to go.”
“Why do we have to go?”
Jane sighed. “You came here to get me out because you suspect I know where Summer is, or at least have an idea, and you want me to show you, right?”
Raquel’s eyes narrowed and her small nostrils flared. “Did you kill her?”
Jane shook her head, casting a wary glance at Ninny. “No. George did.”
“George?” Raquel forgot her anger in her surprise. “George Jones?”
Ninny scowled. “You knew all this time, girl? You knew he was the man we were looking for?”
Jane didn’t meet Ninny’s eyes. Circe shouted at her inside her head, Lie, lie, lie. They don’t need to know.
“Yes,” Jane said finally. “George Jones didn’t die in Vietnam. He changed his name and joined the gang led by Jessop Chance, a man who was in his unit. He hides the money, hides the trail, hides the evidence.”
Ninny was holding one of the braids she’d woven into Jane’s hair tautly, as if she intended to jerk on it, like an owner yanking a dog to a halt with a leash.
“George Jones is half witch,” Ninny explained to Raquel. “That doesn’t mean much to you, but for us, the only people we have trouble seeing are our own. We don’t fit the way other people do.”
Raquel had no idea what Ninny was talking about. But she didn’t have time for long metaphysical explanations.
“Where is George now? What name does he go by?” she asked instead.
“You know him.” Circe felt a perverse pleasure in telling Raquel this news. “George Mills.”
Raquel looked upset, her big dark eyes widening. She stepped closer to Jane, her face twisting into something dangerous. “Brent’s on his way there now,” Raquel snarled. “George could kill him.”
Circe shrugged—it was nothing to her. She watched distantly as Raquel frantically dialed something on her phone. Distantly, Circe could hear the phone ring and ring, and then a man’s voice.
“Damn it,” Raquel cursed, so Circe assumed it had been a recording.
“We’re running out of time,” Ninny pointed out, shucking the white robe she was wearing. “Jane, take off those pajamas and put on my clothes. You’re going to help us catch him.”
Circe whined inside Jane’s heart. This isn’t fair. Our Mark is dead. George promised, promised to take care of us.
When Jane had met Mark and had started venturing into the old paper mill in the woods to help with the drugs and the girls, he’d promised her money, and trips, and exciting adventures. Circe, who was also Jane, had liked the idea of leaving the Havens’ land, where her family thought she was crazy, and untalented, which was worse, but Jane had talent. She did. Sometimes.
She’d helped Mark and Charlie and Robert and Belle fin
d the girls and boys who wouldn’t be missed, the ones who were easily lost. George had asked to meet her, after she’d helped them for a while. She’d known he was a Haven right away. He had Haven eyes, the bright blue eyes that couldn’t be hidden behind a fat face. She’d kept his secret from the others, even Mark, and George’d promised he would help her. When it had all gone wrong, and the couriers were killed, George had said he would lie to Jessop, that he would keep her safe, and he had. He’d kept his promise. In return, she’d held the drugs until they could be picked up, and she’d helped him look for Summer, who was dead, but not quite dead, in the way of all witches.
“Hurry up, Jane. Quit woolgathering,” Ninny ordered, handing Jane her clothes. Jane, who was the same height and build, hurriedly stripped off her hospital pajamas and handed them to Ninny. Ninny donned them quickly.
“All right, now the robe,” Ninny continued, dropping the white robe she’d been wearing when she came in over Jane’s head.
Jane straightened it fussily. She looked ridiculous. She never wore robes for the solstice; she always performed the rituals naked.
“Why was your blood on Summer’s ribbon?” Raquel asked.
Jane stared at her suspiciously. She didn’t want to answer that question. Didn’t think she should try to explain to someone outside the family. Ninny prodded her with one sharp knuckle.
“Kneel down. I need to put this in your hair. I’ll explain what idiocy you were attempting in the damn woods.”
Ninny worked ash into Jane’s long brown braids, making them gray, while she spoke. “She’s trying to summon Summer back. She thinks that by using her own blood and things that belong to Summer, and performing the ceremony on the solstice, she can bring back her sister.”
“Bring her back?” Raquel sounded both horrified and hopeful, derisive and curious. Like it was the thing she wanted most in the world but just didn’t see how it was possible, didn’t believe. Jane wasn’t surprised. Non-Havens never believed, not enough.
Ninny finished graying Jane’s hair and looked at her handiwork critically. “Stay hunched down, let the braids fall forward. Bend like you’re an old woman. Good. Now hold still.”