“They would meet at the edge of town and walk through the woods. It was said if you followed them, you might see them dancing. Or hear laughter bloomin' under the spreading limbs of the beech trees.” Mrs. Gartner licks her lips and fumbles with the pack of cigarettes on the arm of the couch. Lights one and sucks at it 'til the stale air in the house is gray with smoke.
“Jack Green asked for Emily's hand, but her daddy would have none of it. Told him he'd be damned before he let his daughter marry a Yankee. And Jack, some say he swore to have Emily any way he could, and some say he didn't say anything. But everyone agrees those two young folks eloped. I guess maybe they thought once the thing was done Mayor Decker would have to go along with it.
“But that wasn't how it went.” She takes another drag at the cigarette. “They came back to town, and Decker dragged his daughter back to his house and locked her up in the cellar. And a mob of menfolk grabbed Jack Green and shut him up in the trunk he used to carry his goods around in.”
Percival swallows hard. “The box.”
“That's right. They pulled it out to the edge of town and stacked it all around with wood and lit it up.” She stubs out the butt of the cigarette and smooths her skirt across her knees. “He screamed and begged them to let him out, but even if they'd wanted to, the flames had hold of that iron trunk and there weren't no getting it back.
“So then he cursed them. Swore they would pay for what they had done. No matter how they might hide their daughters, he would find them and pull them into his heart of flames and ash. One hundred brides to replace the one they had stolen from him. And having uttered that curse, Jack Green died.”
Silence fills the room. Percival has seen things that would turn many a head white with fear, and heard plenty more that are even worse. But this story has a weight to it. A heft in the words that says more of them are true than aren't.
He takes a drink of water. “Who else knows this... story?”
“Everyone,” Mrs. Gartner says. “They say if you walk out in certain parts of the woods late at night you can see him standing out there under the trees. Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
She shrugs, arms folded tight across her chest and a distant look in her eye.
There's a knock at the door and Martinez steps back inside. “I'm all done out here.”
“You find anything?” Tammy smiles, hard and satisfied and knowing that whatever he might have expected to find, it wasn't there.
“No. Like you said, there's not much left.” He looks at Percival with a curious lift in his eyebrows. “You ready to go?”
“I think so.” He stands up, sets the empty glass on the edge of the cluttered coffee table. “Thank you for the water. And the story.”
Mrs. Gartner nods, reaching for her cigarettes. “You be careful now.” Hard to say if she means it, already pointing the remote at the TV on the opposite wall.
As Percival steps onto the front porch, the belligerent tones of a daily exploitation talk show rumble through the house. He takes a deep breath, waiting for some deeper signal. His stomach quivers, but the nausea isn't supernatural.
“Are you all right?” Martinez is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
“Thinking.”
“Yeah. You've got that look.”
“Look?”
“Like you're about to figure something out.”
He waits, hoping Martinez is right, but all he feels is confused. “She told me a story. A ghost story about a town legend. It sounds right. A man murdered for marrying the wrong woman.”
“Swore revenge in some terrible way?”
“Yes.” Percy rubs his fingers through his hair. “But she said it happened after the war.”
“That's more than a century past.” Martinez unlocks the SUV. “It happens though.”
He's unsettled by the seriousness of it. “Maybe. But this... if it were true, wouldn't there be others? Before now?”
“There might be records. I'll put in a request to the sheriff's department. See if anything turns up.”
“Okay.” Percy slides into the passenger seat. “Like Romeo and Juliet, only not everyone dies.”
“What?” Martinez pauses, one hand on the gearshift.
“Nothing.” He slouches down in the seat and covers his eyes with his fingers. The itch on the back of his neck is gone, but his head is pounding. “Not everyone dies,” he mutters.
What happened to Jack Green's true love?
5
The squat brick building that houses the sheriff's department cannot handle the influx of new investigators, and the FBI team has been shuffled into the basement of the old library on the other side of the parking lot.
Percival huddles on a folding chair, nursing a cup of coffee, and waiting for the aspirin to kick in. The musty air isn't helping, thick with the smell of old cardboard and older books, which is just cool enough to make him clammy in the humidity. He tried walking around outside, but the heat is stifling and the glare off the cars makes his vision blur.
He knows this pain. The growing warning that there is big magic near. The knowing doesn't make it any easier.
“Here.” Martinez sits down next to him and holds out a Styrofoam bowl. “You'd better eat something.”
Percival's stomach clenches at the thought, but food will help if he can keep it down. He digs the spoon down to the bottom of the bowl and scoops a bite of noodles into his mouth. It's better than expected, and he takes a few more bites as the nausea lessens.
“I asked for the files on any similar murders. Burned corpses dumped in the woods.” A pause while Martinez takes a bite of sandwich. “A few came back, but none like these. Mostly exploded drug labs. One that was an attempt to cover up a shooting.”
“What about less recently?”
“The sheriff's calling in his predecessor, Bill Mains. Apparently he's more familiar with the older stuff. Bit of a history buff, too.” He stands up. “I'm going to grab a Coke. You want something?”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay. The machine's down the hall to the right if you change your mind.”
Percival nods. He's more concerned with finding out what happened to Jack Green's wife and unborn child.
There's a rustle of conversation near the door and an older man approaches, sits down in an empty chair without being asked. “Bill Mains.” He sticks out his hand and Percival shakes it.
“Agent Percival Cox.”
“Percival.” Mains laughs. “That's a mouthful.”
“Yes, sir.” They both sit back in their chairs, sizing each other up. Mains is a broad shouldered man with a broader belly. Square features and light hair that's turned white over the years, and blue eyes that tend to shudder when he's nervous, rolling left, then right under the deep overhang of his forehead. They're shifting back and forth as he studies Percival.
Where Mains is squared off and blunt, Percival Cox is tall and thin with strong features that hint at cultural roots that are something other than white. Strong enough for Mains to forget to act like he ain't a bigot.
“Cox,” he says. “That Jewish?”
Percival shrugs. “Maybe. Did they tell you why I wanted to talk to you?”
“Tolbert said you had some questions about older cases.”
“About Jack Green. About The Salesman.”
Mains lets out a hard breath. “The Salesman is just a legend.”
“But Jack Green and Emily Decker are not.”
Mains’ eyes flit back and forth while he squares his shoulders, like a dog posturing at the gate. “Those names are long dead and best left that way.”
But Percival leans forward intently. “Emily Decker. Emily Green, I suppose. She was carrying a child when her new husband was murdered, wasn't she?”
“Twins.” Mains wilts at his answer. “About nine months after Green disappeared, she had two boys. Then up and moved out of town with them.”
“So any desce
ndants live elsewhere?”
“Sort of.” He glances over his shoulder, then leans forward. “One of the many-great grandsons came back and married a local girl, Lydia Stiles.”
“And they had children?”
“Three daughters. But Lydia... she had the Touch, you know? And maybe there was something in Green's blood. But their girls were strange. And Lydia, she had always been off. They fought about everything seemed like. Then one winter he just disappeared. Got tired of it all maybe.” There's a twist to his mouth that says that ain't likely the truth, but he doesn't dare guess what is. “Anyway. That next summer Lydia just went wild. Locked her three girls up in the shed outside the house and set the damn thing on fire.”
“So they're dead.”
“The eldest one. And the baby.” He licks his lips and his eyes stutter back and forth again. “But Delaney... She came out naked as a baby bird, but untouched. Save where a bit of hot iron fell on her arm.”
Percival blinks as his headache stabs at the back of his eyes. “She didn't burn?”
“Not a hair on her head.” He shakes his own. “Kind of a shame, too. She ain't got no family left. And losing all of 'em like that left her queer in the head.”
“Then she still lives around here?”
“They keep her over at the institution. Greenhaven. Better for everybody. She don't have to worry about food or anything and that way...” He pauses. It is one thing to question a man about his heritage and blame it on curiosity if offense is caused, but only a fool will voice a slur about those with the Touch or the Sense. “Better for everybody.”
“And the curse?”
“You mean that nonsense about Jack Green swearing to claim a hundred young women? That's just superstition.”
“But the bodies they've found do seem to mimic the story. Could be a copy-cat thing.” Percival stirs the last few swallows of soup around the bottom of the bowl. “Could be there's some unnatural thing out there that's been called up by someone with a grudge.”
Mains looks at him hard. “Delaney, you mean.”
“You said she was queer in the head.”
“Not the killing kind of queer though.” He smooths his hair across his forehead. “Not the kind to hold a grudge like that. She's a sweet girl. Strange but kind, you know?”
Percival hesitates, but the ache in his head is insistent. “I still think I should talk to her.”
“Sure.” Mains shrugs. “Be careful though.”
“I thought you said she was harmless.”
“I said she were kind. But she don't burn, boy. You don't take a thing like that lightly.”
“The Touch, you mean.”
“That's right. And Delaney, she's got a way about her. Magic of the tongue they used to call it. You keep your questions in mind when you talk to her or you'll find yourself answerin' hers. Smilin' at her just because she's smilin' at you.”
Percival nods. “I'll be careful.” He stands up, holds out his hand. “Thank you for your help.”
“Certainly. You need anything else, you folks know where to reach me.”
“Yes, sir.” Percival tosses the last of the soup in the trash and goes out to the hall to look for Martinez.
He's standing at the far end of the hall with the other two members of their team—Elliot, tall, pale and cool, and MacKenzie, dark and intense. From the way Elliot is slicing the air with her hand, they have new information. And with MacKenzie standing with her hand resting on her gun, it isn't good.
Percival hesitates, but this is his team. Avoiding them only aggravates the situation. He slips his hands into his pockets and walks down the hall, trying not to hunch his shoulders as the tension pushes against him like a physical thing.
Martinez, who has blessedly embraced the role of sledgehammer, nods his head. “Mains tell you anything useful?”
“He said the story about Jack Green and Emily Decker was true enough, but maybe not the curse part. And they have a descendant. Delaney Green.”
“She seem like a source for all this?”
“Hard to say without talking to her. Mains said she was crazy, possesses the Touch, but is too kind to be murdering anyone.”
Agent Elliot makes a sour face and taps her fingernails on her belt buckle. “Does Miss Green own a pickup truck?”
Percival shakes his head. “I doubt she owns much of anything. She's been staying at some sort of mental institution since her mother tried to kill her when she was young.”
Elliot props her hands on her hips and looks at MacKenzie. “We've had a couple of witnesses down on Grisham Road say they saw a truck out there. A couple of guys carrying something back into the woods.” She raises an eyebrow and glances at Percival, daring him to challenge her on it.
“Descriptions? Or any idea who they might be?”
“A general description and a few possibilities based on those.” She frowns. “I thought you were dead set on this being unnatural.”
“I'm certain it's connected to the murder of Jack Green. But that doesn't mean it can't be two guys with a sick sense of the world and a pickup truck trying to make a name for themselves.” He forces his shoulders to relax. “We've seen that happen before. Someone trying to make some legend come to life. Or seem like it has.”
“True.” MacKenzie sounds grudging, but she nods. “I take it you want to talk to Miss Green?”
“Yes. Just to be certain.” Percival tosses his hair out of his eyes trying to seem casual.
“All right.” MacKenzie nudges Martinez. “Why don't you go with Cox? Agent Elliot and I will go run down this list of names.”
Percival looks at Martinez. “Are you ready to go?”
“Just need to get my jacket and the file on the bodies.” He strides back toward the makeshift office space.
Elliot fidgets. “We should probably be going, too.”
“Be careful.” Percival tries to smile, but his head is still screaming big magic.
Her lips twist, finally producing something like a grin. “Of course, Agent Cox. You too.”
He waits until they've left before leaning against the wall of the corridor. The enameled bricks are cool to the touch and he presses his forehead against them, trying to ease the ache.
“You're still in pain?” Martinez sounds irritated, only thinly veiling his concern. He has his jacket slung over one shoulder, two file folders tucked under his other arm.
“It's getting better.” Percival straightens. “The soup helped and I think the aspirin...”
“But your head is still sounding a warning.”
He nods. “Like a damn bell.”
“For us or them?” A twitch of his head indicates the already departed Elliot and MacKenzie.
“Us, I think. But that's not unusual. Running into someone with the Touch.”
Martinez looks doubtful. “And you're certain you're up for this?”
“It won't get better with waiting.” He pries himself away from the stability of the wall. “What's that?”
Martinez hands him the second folder. “File on Green's mother and the dead sisters. Thought you might want to look through it. Maybe give you some insight into this woman before you're sitting nose to nose with her.”
Percival balances the folder on one arm and flips through the reports. The words sting his fingertips. Two young females, age 14 years, and 12 days. Burned alive. Evidence of prior neglect.
He closes the folder gently and forces himself to smile at Martinez. “Thank you. I'm sure this will help.” Despite his best effort, his voice trembles.
Martinez hesitates, knuckles showing white as he clutches his jacket—like he wants to hit something. “You let me know if this gets too big for you. We can call in backup.”
“Sure.” Percy follows him down the hall. Mains’ words are whispering 'round the inside of his head.
She don't burn, boy. You don't take a thing like that lightly.
6
The operational director at Greenhaven, a spindly woman
with the unfortunate name of Drowner, is displeased about the request to speak with Delaney Green.
And curious.
She purses her lips, tinted with a lipstick that is too harsh for her bland coloring, and paces around the office, pausing to straighten a book on the shelves and return a folder to the organizer on her desk—reasserting the severity of the room.
Percival does his best not to draw away from her as she moves closer. His sensitivity is running high, and the combination of her disapproval and curiosity is both cold and sharp.
“This is a murder investigation,” Martinez says.
“I appreciate that, Agent Martinez. But you must understand that Miss Green is not an ordinary patient. Exposing her to outside elements...” Her gaze slides across Percival. “I don't know how she will react to the presence of other magic. Even the paltry energy of a Sensitive could trigger an adverse reaction.”
“She's medicated, yes?” Percival lets some of his irritation bleed out, the immovable quality he showed with Mains rising to the surface.
“Yes.” Ms. Drowner looks back and forth between the two of them. “But this is a young woman with the Touch. When we first tested her, the results indicated she was likely a Power, not just aware of the flow of the world around her but capable of influencing it. Of changing it.”
Martinez shrugs. “Most with the Touch test that way.”
“It's not unusual, but since then... her tests bring back zero results.”
“The medication is effective.”
“Or there is no way to calculate how strong she is.” She says it with a little smile.
Martinez raises an eyebrow, his face so carefully controlled that Percival knows he wants to call the whole thing off. But also acknowledging he isn't the one who will be sitting face to face with Delaney Green.
Percival rubs his forehead. “Is she difficult to handle?”
“Not at all.” Ms. Drowner says it automatically.
Touch: A Trilogy Page 3