The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  The violence, the dreams, all seemed out of place as I walked along with the dogs.

  At the city park, I chose a picnic table under a big elm to sit and watch the children play on the swings and teeter-totters. Across the park, one table had yellow, red, and orange helium balloons fastened at the end. They bounced gaily in the air above the bright tablecloth, announcing happy birthday.

  Lady and T.P. picked a spot at my feet where they could check out all the kids. I noticed their bodies tense with anticipation whenever a child ran by. They wanted to join the fun, but I didn’t dare let them off their leashes.

  T.P. suddenly scrambled to his feet and his tail whipped from side to side. Following his eyes, I saw a child break away from a group of children by the slides and come running toward us, her brown curls bobbing.

  Evita.

  “Miss Jensen,” she said, falling to her knees in front of Lady and T.P. “Are they yours?”

  T.P. immediately scrambled onto Evita’s lap and began licking her face with his long pink tongue.

  Grabbing his collar, I tugged him off her. “Sorry, he needs a little work on his manners.”

  “That’s okay,” she replied with a little giggle, and rubbed his face. “He’s nice. So is this one,” Evita said as Lady sidled up to her.

  “He’s a puppy and a little rambunctious. And to answer your question…Lady’s my dog, but T.P. is my daughter’s.”

  She paused, petting both dogs and cocked her head, looking up at me. “Do they smile?”

  I laughed. “Kind of, I guess.” I patted Lady’s head. “They’re very good at letting me know if they’re happy or not.”

  “Brandon’s having a birthday party,” she said, pointing toward the balloons, “and he invited me.”

  “That’s terrific, sweetie. Have you been to the library lately?” I asked as Evita stood and scooted next to me on the bench.

  She dipped her head. “No, Papa won’t let me.”

  I felt a flicker of annoyance. Just because I’d upset Mr. Vargas wasn’t a reason to deny Evita the joy of reading.

  “That’s too bad,” I murmured, and bit my tongue to keep from saying more. Not your place to interfere, I thought.

  She leaned close to me and held her hand up to her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything about my aunt,” she whispered.

  “Oh, Evita, I’m sorry if my visit landed you in trouble.”

  “It’s okay,” she replied with a toss of her brown curls. “Mama says Papa will get over it once my aunt’s here.”

  “Will she be here soon?”

  “I don’t know—she’s in Phoenix right now, I think.” Evita’s mouth formed a little pout. “They never tell me anything, but I overheard them talking about why it’s taking her so long to come from Mexico.”

  “Your aunt lived in Mexico?”

  “Yes, she’s Papa’s little sister. He had to leave her when he came to this country. All these years he’s been working to pay for her to join him—” She hesitated. “But I’m not supposed to know that either.”

  “Evita, you shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

  She gave a little wiggle. “I wouldn’t have to if they’d tell me what’s going on—like that man on the motorcycle. I don’t know why Papa got so mad at him.”

  I turned to face her. “Evita, what man on the motorcycle?”

  She wrinkled her nose, thinking. “I forget when, but a man came to the house after I went to bed. I heard him arguing with Papa out in the front yard, so I peeked out the window. And—” She stopped when a little girl called out.

  “Hey, Evita, come on,” she yelled, waving her arm. “Let’s teeter-totter.”

  Evita hopped to her feet. “That’s my best friend, Jenny,” she said with a big smile. “’Bye, Miss Jensen. I’ll be back at the library soon for a piece of candy.”

  “I’ll make sure the jar’s full, sweetie,” I called after her.

  As I watched Evita run across the park, I felt sick at my stomach. Man on a motorcycle? Antonio Vargas had talked to Stephen and probably known Ben Jessup when he worked at the winery. Now a mysterious man on a motorcycle was showing up at his house late at night. Was Vargas somehow involved in Stephen’s shooting and Ben Jessup’s murder?

  Twenty-Six

  I walked back to the house with heavy steps, and somehow the world didn’t seem so peaceful anymore. Should I tell Bill about my conversation with Evita? That she’d seen a man on a motorcycle arguing with her father? Motorcycles were common this time of year—it didn’t necessarily mean Antonio Vargas was mixed up in anything illegal. But if he were? That poor child’s world would come crashing down around her.

  I couldn’t do it—go running to Bill with only the ramblings of a ten-year-old. I needed more information. Abby could help me. She’d recommended using the datolite, but I had a better idea. I’d ask her to do a “reading” on me instead. The thought made me a little uncomfortable—my grandmother tiptoeing around in my mind, ferreting out information. When we’d done readings before, it always left me feeling a little rattled.

  But Abby was good, and I had more faith in her achieving results with a reading than me trying to use the datolite.

  She was in the greenhouse when I arrived. Getting out of the car, I turned the dogs loose to let them run while I searched for Abby.

  She’d arranged baskets of bright fall mums near the ancient cash register. Shelves, holding potting soil, gardening gloves, and grass seed, lined one wall. From the back of the greenhouse I heard the noise of running water. Ahh, she’s watering the plants.

  Heading toward the sound, I took a deep breath—the smell of damp earth, fertilizer, and flowers hit me—the smells of my childhood when I helped Abby, as Tink did now. I paused and took another deep breath, savoring the memory of those days.

  Life was sure easier back then, I thought with a sigh.

  I found Abby in the back. Noticing me, she shut off the hose and studied me.

  “You look like you just lost your best friend,” she commented, curling the hose around her arm. “Is everything okay with Tink?”

  “Yes, she’s fine…I talked to her this afternoon.” My lips tightened. “She’s taking to the mountains just swell. In fact, she’s starting to sound as if she’d been raised there.”

  A small grin played at the corner of her mouth. “I knew Tink would adapt well.”

  “That’s not why I’m here,” I stated, then told her about my day—meeting Gina and my talk with Evita.

  “I don’t know what to do next,” I said, following her up and down the rows of plants as she pinched off dead leaves.

  “I told you—use the datolite. Use your insight to get a description of the man in St. Louis.”

  Leaning against one of the tables, I crossed one leg over the other. “I’ve been thinking about that. It would be better if you just did a reading on me.”

  Her eyes darted my way. “You hate that.”

  “I know, but I’m desperate.”

  She picked off a dead blossom. “No.”

  “What? No?” I exclaimed, pushing away from the table. “You won’t help me?”

  “I’ll lend you a piece of datolite,” she replied calmly.

  “That’s it?” I snapped a dead flower off the nearest mum and began shredding the petals.

  Abby continued down the row of tables. “Yes.”

  I threw the petals on the table and hurried after her. “Wait a minute,” I said, grabbing her sleeve. “My back’s against the wall and I can’t figure a way out. All I have are a bunch of loose ends.”

  “Use your gift.”

  “I’m not as good as you are,” I pleaded.

  “Yes, you are,” she answered in a firm voice as she gently pulled away from me. “You just don’t believe it.”

  She meant it—she wasn’t going to help me. My shoulders slumped, and my shock was replaced by a sense of defeat.

  Abby eyed me over her shoulder. “Oh, don’t look so forlorn.” Picking up a potted mum
, she turned toward me.

  The plant was heavy with bronze flowers, and even standing a few feet away, I could smell its tangy fragrance.

  “See this plant? Remember what it looked like last spring?” she asked.

  “Yeah…two little leaves on a skinny stalk. So?” I groused.

  “Right. I watered it, gave it fertilizer, protected it from extreme temperatures, and look at it now.”

  “All right, I agree it’s gorgeous. But what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, I’ve given this plant a good start,” she said, fingering the soft petals, “and its roots are strong. If I planted this in the earth, it would not only survive, but thrive.”

  I scuffed the concrete floor with the toe of my tennis shoe. “Are you trying to tell me I have my own root system now?”

  Abby gave a little chuckle. “Yes.” She came to me, her face glowing as she laid a hand on my arm. “You are one of the chosen, my dear. What you need is buried inside of you. All you have to do is reach down and take it.”

  Later that night, armed with my piece of datolite, I prepared my space. Taking a purple candle, I dipped the tip of my finger in patchouli oil and traced the runes, Laguz and Pertho, on the side of the candle. Laguz, to add energy to my psychic powers; Pertho, the rune of mystery, of things hidden, with the hope that it would help me to find what I couldn’t see.

  Holding the datolite lightly in my left hand, I tried to relax, but tension gripped me like a vice. Anxiety bit into me. I can’t do this.

  Yes, you can, said a voice in my head.

  I stretched my neck, rolled my shoulders, and concentrated on taking steady breaths. In, out—in, out. I lit the candle and picked up a pen and notebook, ready to write down my impressions.

  I imagined I was back in St. Louis, at Stephen’s condo. I remembered feeling the need to hurry, the sudden sense of panic as we were leaving. The elevator opened, and at the last second I glanced at the man stepping into the hallway from the other elevator.

  Height—medium, less than six feet, with a slight build. His ethnic background appeared to be Latin. Thick black hair, short in front, longer in back, brushing the neck of his shirt. He wore jeans, motorcycle boots with heavy heels, and a dark T-shirt. A chain was attached to his belt, with whatever was on the end shoved in his pocket.

  Scribbling down the description, I noticed I’d failed to see his eyes. I needed to see the eyes.

  My memory flashed forward to the park—the sound of splashing water, the peacefulness I’d felt sitting there. I imagined what I’d seen, heard, and felt as I left the park—the dead air, the tall buildings, the shadows, and finally the footsteps behind me.

  In my head I saw myself whipping around.

  Black eyes stared at me. Greedy eyes…greedy with a hunger not satisfied. A thin scar ran from the corner of one eye down the side of his cheek. His tongue darted out and licked thin lips. A gold medallion around his neck flashed.

  Shutting my eyes, I burned the man’s image into my brain. Slowly, I opened them. Yes, my impressions lingered, and I’d recognize him again.

  No name, nothing else had filtered through, but now my pursuer had a face.

  Twenty-Seven

  Later, curled up in bed, I felt tired, but my spirit was light. Abby had been right—I did it. The knowledge gained might not tie up all the loose threads, but knowing who hunted me was one more piece of the puzzle.

  “All a matter of faith,” I murmured to myself as I floated off to sleep.

  The shadows were lengthening—I had to hurry. I pumped the pedals of my bicycle faster as I turned the corner. Good—the church of Saint Flora was up ahead.

  I touched the package tucked in the pocket of my slacks. Precious food tickets—my payment for acting as courier for the saboteurs. The tickets had been waiting, locked in a shed near Quai de Valmy, when I made the drop. Using the key Brother Sebastian had given me, I’d unlocked the shed, left the explosives, and taken the counterfeit food tickets.

  When I reached the alley next to the church, I made a sharp right turn and coasted to the rear of the building. Hopping off my bicycle, I left it propped against the side of the stone building and walked to a small wooden door. With a glance toward the end of the alley, I tapped twice. A second later the rasp of a bolt being thrown back sounded softly. The door opened, and Brother Sebastian silently drew me inside.

  Touching a finger to his lips, he pivoted and strode down a narrow hall—his cassock whispering faintly against his legs. I skipped behind, trying to keep up with him. At the end of the hall I saw another door. He stopped, took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. With a wave, he motioned me down a flight of wooden steps.

  A single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling lit my way as I descended. The air became cooler, and a musty smell seemed to radiate from the damp walls. At the bottom of the stairs, I found myself standing in an ancient cellar.

  The space was cluttered with old wooden chairs stacked haphazardly against one another, moldy books rotting on dusty shelves, and empty wine bottles. Brother Sebastian crossed the room to one of the shelves and slowly moved it away from the wall, revealing yet another door. It only measured four feet in height and had been completely invisible behind the shelf. He opened the door, and a small square of light appeared on the stone floor. Crouching, he went through the doorway.

  I followed.

  Straightening, I stood in a small room. Three pallets, laid side by side and covered with threadbare blankets, took up one wall. A single kerosene lamp, sitting on a square table in the center of the room, provided a small circle of light that didn’t quite reach the murky corners of the room.

  I jumped when a man suddenly stepped out of the shadows. In the dim light, I sensed his body tense. He wore peasant clothes—a homespun shirt, rough trousers, and heavy boots. An old slouched hat covered his head. Even though the brim of his hat cast a partial shadow over his face, I could see his complexion spoke of his Gitan heritage.

  Brother Sebastian crossed the room and laid a hand on the man’s arm. “It’s all right, Jacques, this is Madeleine. She’s here to help.”

  I reached in my pocket for the food tickets, but stopped abruptly when Jacques took a half step toward me.

  A small hand appeared on his shoulder, and someone whispered, “Jacques.”

  His head whipped around as a woman holding a child stepped out from behind him.

  “Come, Marie,” Brother Sebastian said, taking the woman’s arm and leading her to one of the chairs sitting by the table.

  Marie sat, settling the child on her lap and wrapping her multicolored shawl tightly around the little girl. Jacques followed, and coming up behind her, put a hand protectively on Marie’s shoulder while he stared at me with suspicion.

  Marie was also Gitan—high broad cheekbones, with black eyes and hair. Those eyes watched me now with fear hiding in their depths.

  I looked at the child—a girl. Although petite, I judged her to be around nine or ten. She had inherited the best of both her parents. Caramel skin from her father and her mother’s black eyes. Her eyes didn’t watch me in fear like her mother, or with suspicion like her father. Her eyes held nothing but bright curiosity.

  “Jacques, Madeleine has brought the food tickets.” Brother Sebastian nodded in my direction.

  I took a step forward and placed them on the table by the lamp.

  “Madeleine, this is Jacques and Marie Gaspard. And this,” he said, chucking the little girl under her chin, “is Rosa.”

  I squatted in front of the child. “Hello, Rosa.”

  “Hello, mademoiselle,” she replied shyly.

  My eyes traveled up to Marie. “May I give her something?”

  Marie relaxed against the back of the chair and nodded.

  “Do you like candy?” I asked, and withdrew a peppermint stick from my pocket.

  “Oh, yes!” Rosa exclaimed, her eyes dancing.

  Handing her the candy, I smiled as her tongue darted ou
t and licked the red and white stripes.

  Marie bent her head down and whispered something in Rosa’s ear.

  The child paused for a moment and gave me a wide smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome,” I said, smiling back at her.

  She leaned her head back against her mother and continued eating her candy. As she did, a medallion around her neck glimmered in the soft light. It was a circle of gold surrounding four petals.

  “Your necklace is lovely, Rosa,” I commented.

  Marie smiled and laid a hand over the gleaming gold. “It’s very old.” She kissed the top of Rosa’s head. “It protects her from harm.”

  As I talked to Marie, Brother Sebastian had drawn Jacques to the other side of the small room, and they stood talking in low voices.

  He turned to me. “Madeleine,” he called abruptly.

  Standing, I patted Rosa on the head, then joined them.

  “I didn’t want to frighten Marie and Rosa,” Brother Sebastian said quietly, “but I want you to hear this. Go ahead, Jacques.”

  Jacques removed his hat and wrung the brim with his hands. “When the Germans came, one of the village priests helped us escape. Keeping to the woods, he took us to the next village and to the church that was there. The priest from that village moved us to the next, and so it went, until we reached Paris and Brother Sebastian.”

  “It must have been a long journey for you,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, lowering his eyes. “And we’ve a longer journey ahead.”

  “Tell Madeleine what you learned at the last church,” Brother Sebastian prodded.

  “To the east,” he said, his eyes darting to Brother Sebastian before settling on me, “saboteurs had blown up a bridge. Someone reported to the Germans that those responsible for the bridge were hiding in a small village nearby. The Germans came to the village—” His voice faltered.