by Dana Donovan
He paced the yellow line along the edge of the platform, back and forth, mumbling to himself and occasionally looking down the tracks as if the train might return at any moment with Lilith on board. Carlos and I waited, as we’ve done so many times before, for Tony to find his zone and work it out the best he could. But soon the wheels in his head began turning, and it wasn’t long before he stopped and said, “Besides staying onboard the train for the turn-a-round back to Boston, where else could she have gone?”
“East,” I said, “to Ipswich.”
“West,” said Carlos, “to Lowell.”
“Yes, but what’s there for Putnam and Lilith? What’s in Boston, Ipswich or Lowell?”
We both shook our heads. “Nothing?”
“That’s right.” He turned his gaze to the exit. “There’s nothing there for them. The train station was just a ruse. But out there,” he pointed to the street, “out there we have Salem.”
“Yes.” I clapped my hands and rubbed them together briskly. “Of course. Putnam is a witch hunter. If he wanted to kill Lilith he could have killed her on the train. But if he wanted to put her on trial he would want to take her to—”
“Salem,” Carlos finished.
“Exactly,” said Tony. “Dominic, do you get the GPS internet on your iPod?”
That made me laugh, though I assure you, Tony saw nothing funny about it. “Well, Tony, first of all it’s not an iPod. You’re thinking of the iPhone. Secondly, mine is not an i-anything; it’s a Merc-Vector 280.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference? Only about eight hundred dollars; that and the fact that mine is built with the world’s first perpetual capacitor regeneration modular based on Merc-Vector’s mercury filled dual resonance flux compression magneto.”
Tony looked at Carlos and gave him a who gives-a-shit shrug, to which Carlos promptly returned. “So what are you saying, it doesn’t have the internet GPS thing?”
“Hell yes, it has GPS. How’s fifteen split-load megabytes a second at 128 GHz sound to you?”
“Sounds like hen squabble. But if it gets us to Salem and lets you do some research on the Salem witch-hunts along the way, then I’m happy. After all that’s happened, I think it’s time we got a better understanding on just what we’re up against.”
“Then let’s do it.”
“Carlos, is the cruiser gassed up?”
“Topped it off this morning.”
“Okay, what are we waiting for? Let’s go to Salem.”
We hopped in the car and headed out of town: Carlos driving, Tony riding shotgun and me with my feet kicked up in the back, browsing the web for everything I could find using the keywords: Salem, witchcraft and McDonalds. Of course we had to eat on the way; otherwise we never would have heard the end of it from Carlos.
Lilith Adams:
I awoke some time later, still in the back of the limo, only then my hands were bound behind my back. Night had settled in. I could see a sliver of violet off in the western sky. The car was in motion, and though I was not alone I assumed that Putnam was driving, because the man sitting across from me on the leathered bench seat was not the dubious witch hunter, but the man from the train, the gentleman I assumed was as harmless as the newspaper he had retreated to when last our eyes met.
He waited for me to shake the weariness from my head before speaking, but when he did, I recognized his voice right away. His was the voice I heard over the phone on the platform at Jefferson station. The voice of the devil, I supposed, if such a creature existed.
“Ms. Adams, you’re awake,” he said. “Splendid. I was afraid we would have to carry you in when we got where we’re going.”
“And where’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
“No. I think I’ve seen enough already. If you don’t mind, I’ll just….” I tried to pull free from the ropes that bound my hands, but found I couldn’t. So I tried a little magic, but for some strange reason my witchcraft wouldn’t work. I looked to the old man. He smiled crookedly. Clearly, he had anticipated my moves and squelched my ability to react imaginatively.
“Something wrong?” he said, and a dull laugh rolled up from his belly and then faded pathetically on his lips.
I looked into his eyes, trying but unable to penetrate his thoughts. I sensed the evil lurking within him, but something wicked kept his secrets untold. “Who are you?” I asked.
He elbowed his armrest and braced himself fully upright in his seat. “Name’s Hilton: Emanuel J., pastor of Our Lady of Grace Church.” Then, as if to validate his claim, he held up the eight-inch golden crucifix from around his neck. “At your service, ma'am.”
I shook my head with certainty. “No, you’re no pastor. You’re a witch.”
“Me? Oh-ho, that’s rich. Look who’s calling the kettle black. May I remind you that you’re the one who claimed the bones of a witch as your kin? You even told Deputy Mayor Goodman about the gate key. Who else might know about that, but for another witch?”
“What would you know about a gate key?”
He curled his lip and strained to smile. “Plenty.” He pulled the gate key medallion from his inside coat pocket and held it before me. “See?”
I felt my anger boiling to the surface, but I tried hard to keep him from enjoying it. “That’s mine,” I said, “you thieving bastard. How the hell did you get that?”
“Isn’t it just like a witch? Sooner or later your greed betrays you all. Tell the truth. Isn’t that why you told Goodman that Ursula Bishop was a distant relative of yours, so that you could get your hands on the gate key?”
“No.”
“Tell me about the key. What powers does it hold for you?”
“None, you idiot. It’s just a medallion. Who gave it to you? Goodman? Is he an Ingersoll’s Witness, too?”
“Would you kill him if he were?”
“Maybe, but I’m definitely going to kill you.”
That made him laugh. “Try as you might,” he said. “Let me see you.”
I struggled to whip up something caustic and painful for the old wolf, certain that I could stop his heart or boil his brain or at least give him a bad case of indigestion. But nothing in my bag of tricks would work on him. I finally ask, “What have you done to me?”
He reached behind his back, pulled out a stun gun and squeezed the trigger as he held it up, causing a riot of sparks to flicker in nervous fits between two wishbone electrodes. “We needed something to incapacitate you while we tied you up,” he said. “I trust you don’t find it too uncomfortable now, do you?”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
“Oh, you mean your powers, yes.” He pointed the gun at a small gem dangling from a gold chain around my neck. “Of course, we had to take certain precautions there, as well, you understand. So, I took the liberty to bestow upon you a witch’s stone—my gift to you. I believe you’ll find that your powers are completely ineffective as long as you’re wearing it.”
“You must be mad if you think you can get away with this. There’s not a witch’s stone on earth that can stop me from kicking your ass the minute we step out of this car.”
“No, Ms. Adams, your days of ass-kicking are over now. The men of Ingersoll’s Witness will see to that.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong. Just so long as I still have my legs I can kick the shit out of your sorry old ass.” I rocked back in my seat and stretched my legs across the limo to give old Hilty a good swift kick in the groin. But he countered my attack with a righteous zap from his stun gun, knocking me flat on the limo floor and leaving me in a semi-unconscious state for the duration of the ride.
Tony Marcella:
Dominic had done a fair job of web surfing to find out what he could about the witch hunts of 1692. He filled us in on the highlights as we ate burgers in the car on the road to Salem.
“In a nutshell,” he started, though with Dominic nothing is ever in a nutshell, “John Putnam, whose name cam
e up earlier in connection with our suspect, James T. Putnam, was an influential elder in Salem village. In 1689 he hired Samuel Parris for the job of village minister. Parris—”
“Wait a minute,” said Carlos. “Samuel Parris?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Why?”
“Could be a coincidence,” I said.
“What’s a coincidence?”
“Our pastor fellow last night said his name was Emanuel Hilton.”
“So?”
“So…Emanuel/Samuel, Hilton/Parris?”
“Parris Hilton?”
“Go on,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, that is funny. Anyway, this Parris fellow accepted the job and later that year moved to Salem with his wife, Elizabeth, his daughter Betty, a niece Abigail and a slave woman named Tituba.”
“You’re shitting.”
“No, that’s what it says, Tituba.”
I shook my head. “Not that. You said Abigail.”
“Yes, that’s right. It was Abigail and her cousin Betty, along with Tituba and Putnam’s girl, Ann who first made accusations of witchcraft against some of the village women. And they got good at it, too. It says here that most of the accused were put on trial, found guilty and hanged up on Gallows Hill.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“Abigail and Ann: that’s the names of the girls from my apartment building.”
“No,” said Carlos, and Dominic echoed the sentiments. “This is getting creepier by the minute.”
Dominic said, “Tony, let me ask you. You’ve been living in that apartment for over a year now. Have you ever seen those two girls around there before?”
“No.”
“You notice anyone new moving in lately?”
“You know, come to think of it, I haven’t.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Carlos mumbled. “Too many coincidences.”
I turned in my seat to face Dominic. “Where did you say they hanged those women?”
“Gallows Hill.”
“Can you get us directions there?”
He held his Merc-Vector 280 up for me to see. “Already got the satellite image locked in. Just give me another sec to program it into the GPS.”
“Carlos,” I said, “pick up some steam. Run the siren and lights if you have to. I don’t think we have a moment to waste.”
Lilith Adams:
The limo pulled up next to a barn behind a softball field in a residential part of town. I had been unable to see out the windows from the floor of the limo, but I knew right away we were in Salem. I had been there a hundred times in the course of my long life, and though I’ve never been on that street or in that particular neighborhood before, I recognized the subtle nuances of the roads and buildings. But more than that, I recognized the smell—not that it’s bad. It isn’t. But all cities and towns have their own unique smells, their historic essence captured in the hills and valleys, sequestered by the trees and released in subtle bouquets like spirits, inconspicuous, but to the uninhibited.
Hilton and Putnam escorted me from the limo to the barn, where a gallery of spectators awaited in silent congregation. Off to my right in a step-stair balcony I counted twelve jurors, men and women in traditional Puritan garb seated like eggs in a Styrofoam box, eagerly anticipating my arrival. A sun-like glow warmed the entire barn, illuminated exclusively with candles and lanterns hanging from beams, support posts and makeshift candelabras. A murmured hush swept through the ranks as the two men ushered me forward and presented me to the magistrate.
“Your Honor,” said Hilton, standing stiff before the bench. “I present the accused: Lilith Adams of New Castle village in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
The magistrate, a serious-looking old goat in a powdered wig, his face long and withered, with hooded eyes mired in sunken sockets; leaned over the bench, the top of which stood a full six feet up off the floor.
“Ladies and gentleman of the court,” he cawed. I thought he needed to clear his throat of some clinging phlegm, but he let it ride. “The jurors for our sovereign village of Salem, in the county of Essex, do on this twelfth day of October in the year of our Lord 2008, present that Lilith Adams of New Castle hath on days and times exercised certain detestable acts of witchcraft and sorcery, wickedly and feloniously afflicting torment of unspeakable nature and other most grievous sundry atrocities against our citizenry.
“Additionally, Miss Adams stands accused of bidding the devil’s work with willful and wanton disregard for the sanctity of God’s holy virtues and the casting of spells upon innocent bodies for the purpose of harvesting their souls while recruiting signatures in the devil’s book.” He peered down upon me as if contemplating squashing a bug. “How say you plea, Miss Adams?”
I looked up at him in dismay. “Are you kidding? Are you out of your friggin` mind?”
A collective gasp rushed through the gallery. The magistrate struck his gavel hard on its plate and the report from it echoed around the room in a hollow bounce. “Order!” he called, “Order!” The room quickly fell silent again. “Madam, I assure you this is no joke. You stand accused of some serious crimes. How say you plea?”
I looked around the room in morbid wonder, imagining the fear in the women of early Salem who stood before such a court some three hundred years earlier and begged for mercy, knowing, ironically, that nothing short of admitting to the trumped-up charges might possibly save their lives; for denial surely meant death by hanging. I turned to the jury and said, “How do I plea? Have you all not already condemned me in your eyes?”
The magistrate dropped his gavel once more. “Miss Adams, you will address the bench with your plea and not the jury box.”
“To hell with the bench. This is a mockery. Is there not one among you that believes what happened here in 1692 was a crime against humanity, and that likewise this proceeding today is a sham?”
I watched the faces of jurors and spectators alike grow sour with distain, much, I imagined, as they had for the unfortunate accused in my ancestor’s day. I looked to old man Hilton and Mister Putnam and surmised, “Guess not.” Neither seemed amused.
“Your Honor,” said Hilton, “May I suggest we proceed with the examination?”
“Examination?” I tugged at my restraints, but the men’s grip on my upper arms tightened. “What examination?”
“Let the court record note,” said the magistrate, “that the accused will submit to a full body examination for the purpose of detecting unusual moles, marks or bites where the devil may have penetrated the body for the purpose of acquiring control over form and faculty.”
“Bullshit.” I said. “There will be no examination here tonight. If anyone so much as touches—”
“There,” said Putnam, lifting the flap on the back pocket of my jeans, exposing my tattoo. “It is the devil’s mark. See here what she bares on her buttocks.”
Again the gallery and jury box swelled in a collective gasp. “The devil’s mark!” one screamed. “Heathen!” cried another. An elderly woman stood up and pointed a crooked finger at me. “Burn the witch now!” I turned to her and gestured back similarly, only mine was vertical and not the index, ring or pinky finger.
“It’s a tattoo, you idiots.” I turned again to the magistrate. “Look. It’s the pad print of a cat’s paw. Since when is the devil’s mark associated with kittens?”
He motioned to the court reporter. “Let the record show that the examination revealed the devil’s mark on the accused disguised as a feline’s paw print, probably a jaguar or lion or some other known procurator of Satan.”
“What? No. It’s a cat’s paw. What kind of monkey trial are you putting on here?”
“The accused will take her seat now in the witch’s box.”
He pointed at a small raised platform across from the jury box, to where Putnam and Hilton escorted me. The platform, only one step up, measured a
bout three-foot square with a wooden handrail along the front and both sides. I entered from the back closest to the gallery and took a seat there, my hands still bound tightly behind my back. The murmurs and whispers behind me started almost immediately and continued off and on for the duration of the proceeding. Again, His magistrate dropped his gavel and called the room to order.
“Your Honor,” said Pastor Hilton, approaching the magistrate to within arm’s length of the bench. “May I call the first witness for the prosecution?”
“You mean, persecution,” I hollered.
“Silence,” came the call from the bench. “Mister Hilton, call your witness.”
Hilton turned to the jury and declared, “I call to the stand, Mister James T. Putnam.”
“I object,” I said. “That man is a murderer. He’s not fit to walk the streets a free man.”
“Denied,” said the magistrate. “Pastor, continue calling your witness.”
“Mister James T. Putnam, to the stand please.”
Old J.T. took the stand and removed his hat, setting it on his lap beneath folded hands. He looked to the jury box, winking at several of the older women sitting in the back row. Down in front, a younger-looking gentleman, probably his own son, actually gave him the okay sign followed by a thumbs-up. Putnam smiled at that. On a bench seat in front of the witness stand, a kerosene lantern pitched a dull orange glow upon his face, casting unnatural-looking shadows at such angles as to make him appear stone-like. Hilton, likewise, took on that same stony stature as he entered the light’s circle for the questioning session.
“Mister Putnam,” he began, “would you mind telling the court how long you have lived in Salem?”
“Objection.” I said, mostly just to be a pain in the ass. “The court has not established that this man is indeed James T. Putnam of Salem.”
“Sustained.”