A Witch's Tale

by Lowder, Maralee

Cassie poured 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. There must be no more lies or half-truths between them.

  “I don’t know which has hit him worse, the fact that if he had stayed with her, your mother would have had an alibi for Luke Osborn’s murder, or 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 its usual tranquility.

  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 - not 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 country - 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, filling 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 nudged 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 innocent, that 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 possible that deep down inside, eating away lik
e 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.

  It was done. Myra was bound over for trial for both murders.

  No bail was set.

  The moment the judge rapped his gavel, signifying the end of the session, pandemonium broke loose. Myra turned sharply toward Cassie. In the split second that their gazes met, a message was passed and understood. And then, amongst the yelling and shoving of the unruly crowd, Myra was led out the side door to her waiting cell.

  During their moment of communication, Cassie had been able to shut out the ugliness of her surroundings, but now it came crashing down around her. Hands reached out, grabbing at her clothing. A cacophony of voices demanded her attention. A cry of panic and pain escaped her lips as someone actually pulled out a hunk of her hair. So many demanding voices shouted questions that the words all ran together until all she heard was a thunderous roaring in her ears.

  And then she felt Mac’s arms around her, offering her her only protection in a world gone crazy.

  “Leave her alone!” he shouted as he used all of his strength to forge a path for the two of them through the frenzied mob. His eyes searched desperately for help. Where the hell were the deputies assigned to the courtroom?

  But the help that finally arrived came from a source Mac would never have expected. Above the deafening din rose a voice that demanded obedience, a voice that refused to accept anything else.

  “Out’a the way! Get away from the girl, you bunch of ruffians! Leave her be!”

  “Father Mike?” Cassie called out.

  “I’m coming, Cassie, girl. Hold on there!”

  The old man’s take-charge attitude and priestly garb caused the mob to hold back just long enough for Father Sullivan to reach Mac and Cassie. Positioning himself before the pair like a pious battering ram, he instructed them to follow him as he plowed his way through the surging mob.

  With Mac at Cassie’s side, and Father Sullivan breaking a path, the trio was finally able to make some headway through the jeering crowd. Cassie instinctively ducked her head and closed her eyes, trying with all her might to shut the ugliness away. With Mac’s comforting support, she put one foot before the other until she felt the soft warmth of the late summer sun touch her face. Taking a deep draft of air, she realized that she had been holding her breath the entire time they had fought their way through the crowd. How good the sweet scent of the sea and the pines tasted.

  “How can I thank either of you?” she asked, her voice shaking with emotion.

  “Let’s not worry about that yet,” Mac suggested as he urged her away from the courthouse. “We need to get you away from here as fast as we can.”

  “You’re right,” the priest agreed, glancing back over his shoulder to assess the mob that swarmed out of the building. “Come on! My car’s right over here, parked illegally, of course.”

  It must have been hysteria, but Father Sullivan’s remark struck all three of them as enormously funny. Hoots of laughter swept over them as they flung themselves into the vehicle and sped away from the riotous scene.

  “Where are we going?” Cassie asked when she realized Father Mike was heading in the opposite direction from her home.

  “To a place a great deal safer than that little cabin of yours back there in the woods.”

  Mac chuckled quietly as Father Sullivan maneuvered his automobile into the parish garage, then, with a touch of a button on the remote door device, closed the door behind them.

  “They’ll not be thinking to look for you here, girl.” The priest turned in his seat to smile at Cassie. “You’ll be as safe as a nun in a convent.”

  “Convent!” Cassie couldn’t hide her astonishment. Surely the nuns would never tolerate her presence. And just where was Father Mike planning on sneaking her off to? She knew for a fact that Port Bellmont did not have a convent.

  The priest laughed heartily as he led his two guests through the inside garage door and into his kitchen. Young Cassie in a convent indeed.

  “No, I’ll not be asking you to stay with the good sisters,” he reassured Cassie. “You’ll be my very own house guest, if you’ll be so kind as to accept my invitation.”

  “Stay here? Father Mike, I can’t stay here! What would your parishioners say?”

  “The idea is, Cassie, dear, not to let anyone know you’re here. So I won’t be worrying about wagging tongues. Nor will I be answering to them and their silly superstitions and prejudices. No, the One I answer to will not only understand my intentions, He will wholeheartedly approve of them.”

  Although Cassie had misgivings about putting the priest in an awkward position, she gratefully let him lead her to her room. On the second floor, in a back corner of the enormous old house, the room offered her all the privacy she could have asked for. Though fairly small, it did have its own connected bath and its one window allowed for a view of the churchyard below.

  “Now, you just take your time and freshen up while I fix us all a nice cup of tea,” Father Sullivan said as he turned to leave. “Come on down when you’re ready. Your young man and I will be busy putting our heads together over this terrible travesty they dare call a trial.”

  Strangely, the austere room comforted Cassie. She felt safe. And yes, she felt loved. Father Michael’s unconditional love was truly remarkable, especially under the
present circumstances.

  “ ... and I for one have no intention of sitting by while they crucify one of the finest women I have ever known.”

  Cassie stepped into the parlor just as the elderly priest set his cup down with a decisive thump to emphasize his statement.

  “If you’ll pardon me for saying this, about the last person I would have expected to champion Myra Adams’ cause would be a Catholic priest. I would have expected you to be her worse enemy,” Mac observed.

  The two men sat companionably across the room from each other, each enjoying a cup of the Irish priest’s strong tea.

  “Theologically speaking, obviously we did not see eye to eye. But, unlike those who would string her up from that grand old tree in the middle of town, I took the time to learn what it is she believes in. And though I can’t subscribe to her beliefs myself, I’m telling you, there’s no evil in them. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.”

  “Enough so that you believe her to be innocent. Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?”

  “Not at all. For several reasons, don’t you know. First off, they say there was devil worshipping going on at their ceremonies. There’s not a bit of truth to that. The Wiccan faith does not believe in Satan, so it’s not likely that they would be having so called black masses in his name, now is it?”

  “That’s true,” Cassie interjected from where she stood in the doorway of the parlor. “Satan is part of the Christian faith. Our religion predates Christianity. We worship all of nature, the God and Goddess of all creation. The devil has no part in our religion.”

  “All right, I accept that. But not believing in the devil is hardly enough to convince Judge Davenport or a jury that Myra did not kill those men, especially after the last incident.”

  “And then there’s the rule of three.” The priest sat back in his chair with a satisfied ‘You see?’ expression on his face. The only trouble was, Mac didn’t see a thing. He turned to Cassie for an explanation, but all he got from her was her nodding agreement with Father Sullivan’s statement.