Spells Trouble

by Kristin Cast

  “What do you make of them planting just one olive tree all those hundreds of years ago?” Papers continued to rustle as Trish spoke, and Dearborn could picture her folding the small squares into another barnyard animal for her desktop menagerie.

  He took another drink and let the sweet hazelnut drift across his taste buds as he considered Trish’s question. He had never much thought about it. As a high schooler, he’d go to parties out by the aging olive tree or the lone apple tree on the other side of town or the single cherry or palm that encircle Goodeville. He’d always felt strong and protected while he was out near one of the trees. But get any teenage boy liquored up and he’d be liable to feel like Superman. Now, many years older and much, much wiser, Dearborn felt a bit like one of those lone trees–—waiting, guarding, aging.

  A flutter of pages. “I think it’s pretty neat.” Trish clucked. “Adds a bit of flavor none of the other towns have. Not sure that’s what the founders were aiming for when they planted them…”

  “I tend to agree with you, Trish.” It wasn’t the most honest thing he could’ve said. Dearborn tended to agree with folks a lot more than he actually agreed with them, but sometimes little white lies kept the peace and helped build trust. And a team was nothing without trust.

  Sheriff Dearborn’s blinker lit up the night air with a Halloween glow as he turned off the main road onto the craterous drive that passed by the ancient olive. The first-aid kit he kept in his passenger seat rattled as the cruiser bounced along the gravel. Dearborn grimaced while he did his best to pass more potholes than he hit. He closed in on Earl’s parked shiny red truck as the beams from his headlights bobbed against the olive tree’s gnarled trunk like he was a boat at sea and it, a buoy.

  He rubbed at the pain sprouting in his neck. His old U of I football injury always acted up whenever he was out on these unpaved roads. He’d have to sit down with the mayor again. Outside city limits needed just as much care as inside.

  “I’m not sure why you bother checking up on everything old Earl calls in,” Trish said, bringing him back to the matter at hand. “Especially with your neck the way it is. By my count, this is ruckus number thirty-two, and that’s just this year. Old Earl might beat last year’s Ruckus Record.”

  The Ruckus Record. Dearborn’s clean-shaven cheeks plumped with a grin. That was another thing that cluttered Trish’s desk. She’d decorated a small piece of poster board in fancy hand-drawn calligraphy she’d learned in one of the art classes down at the fancy new craft store, Glitter and Glue. After Dearborn returned from checking out the latest call from Earl, he would come back to the precinct and watch Trish light up as she chose which of her many stickers to add to the poster board. It was a small thing, childish even, but it was a thing they shared only with each other.

  He pulled behind Earl’s pickup and put his car in park. “It’ll give us a reason to open up that new pack of stickers you bought. Big, silver disco ball–looking stars, weren’t they?”

  Trish’s laughter made his chest tighten.

  “Oh, you caught me.” She giggled. “I can’t hide anything from your sharp investigative skills. And I just cannot stay out of that darned craft store.”

  Dearborn dug through the first-aid kit for the aspirin and popped a couple before he unbuckled his seat belt and threw open his door. “If Earl’s going to beat last year’s record, we’ll need all the stickers we can get.”

  He unclipped the flashlight from the belt fastened around his waist and shined the light through the back window of the truck. Empty.

  A faint acrid, smoky scent wafted toward him on the crisp night breeze. He took a deep inhale and followed the smell into the grass away from the tree and the truck and the suspected ruckus.

  Dearborn winced as he craned his neck to talk into the transceiver. “Someone’s been out here smoking—probably kids. I’ll take a closer look and make sure they didn’t leave any cigarette butts behind. Don’t want this whole field going up.”

  “Ten-four.” Trish was silent for a moment before she came back on the radio, her voice light and airy in that hen-like way it got when she came across a juicy bit of town gossip. “You know, old Earl hasn’t been the same since Debbie left him for that spin instructor over in Chicago.”

  Raindrops splatted against Dearborn’s back and the grass swayed around his shins. Each burst of wind through the fields brought with it the steady whoosh of waves on a coastal shoreline. Dearborn paused and savored the moment before resuming his march through the grass.

  “That was back a year or so after the town put in the train,” he said as he cast his beam back and forth over the blades’ puffy tops. “What was that, five years ago now?”

  A whole world of changes had happened on the heels, or maybe on the tracks was a more fitting description, of the new commuter train that ran in a loop from Chicago through Joliet, Bloomington, Champaign-Urbana, Rantoul, and Kankakee before bisecting Goodeville. It had saved the town from a fate too many small Midwestern municipalities had succumbed to and brought with it thriving shops and train cars packed with weary city folk desperate for the sappy slow pace of picturesque Goodeville. The commuter train had also brought Trish to Goodeville. Dearborn didn’t have one complaint.

  Papers rustled as Trish came back over the radio. “Five whole years this August. You know, old Earl was a member of the board that decided to bring the train into Goodeville. Without it, Debbie would be home and you wouldn’t have to deal with the old coot calling every other day and sending you out on wild-goose chases. If that’s not old Earl’s bad luck, I don’t know what is.”

  Dearborn paused and sniffed the air. The scent had died. He took a few steps to the right, back toward Earl’s empty truck and the road and the olive tree, and sniffed again. There it was. He wiggled his nose and followed the scent like a basset hound.

  “Yeah, poor Earl,” he murmured into his walkie-talkie as he left the grass and crossed the road.

  “Poor Earl? If you don’t mind me saying, you should really be thinking, poor you.” She sighed. “In as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never even come close to finding your Debbie.”

  Gravel crunched under his boots as he passed through the white cones of light from his high beams. “I don’t need a Debbie, Trish. I have you.” Through the steady hum of the radio, he could practically hear her plump cheeks flush with heat. He scratched the back of his neck as warmth pricked his own.

  Dearborn cleared his throat and pressed the talk button. “I’ll check in after I’ve sussed out the situation. I’m headed right toward the olive tree.” Another sniff. “Maybe Earl stumbled onto something real this time.”

  “He would love that.” Trish clucked. “Be safe out there.”

  The line went quiet as Dearborn headed into the stretch of grass. He wiped the spits of rain from his face and rubbed the tip of his square nose. The closer he got to the tree, the thicker the stench. It bit at his nose and made his eyes water.

  “Earl,” he called as he swept the beam from his flashlight over the grass. “Where’d you get off to?”

  The gravel crunched behind him and he spun around. He squinted through his tear-swirled vision. “Earl?” he hollered once again as he shined his flashlight along his car, Earl’s truck, and then the road’s shoulder. The white light struck something shiny. The hairs on the back of Dearborn’s neck bristled. His mouth went dry as his fingers found his gun holster. His eyes burned and tears and rain and snot leaked down his face as he quickly, expertly closed in on the glinting metal.

  Sheriff Dearborn’s stomach hollowed as the scene came into view. The buckles of Earl’s suspenders twinkled in the flashlight beam like trapped lightning bugs. The old man’s fingers threaded through the tall grass as if he laid there, peacefully staring up at the stormy night’s sky. Bile burned the back of Dearborn’s throat as he shined his light on Earl’s face. Blood streaked the man’s wrinkled brow and cheeks, and rain pooled in the raw red hollows where his eyes had been.

&n
bsp; Hazelnut and sick coated Sheriff Dearborn’s tongue and he pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. He was a leader, and with a death like this—a murder like this—his town would need him to lead, need him to be strong.

  The sheriff leaned into his radio. “Trish, send an ambulance to Quaker Road and wake up Carter. Wake up the coroner. Everyone! We need to—” Dearborn’s eyelids slammed shut as the smoky scent intensified.

  Footsteps slid across the gravel behind him.

  Dearborn unbuckled his holster and drew his sidearm. “Who’s out there?” Tears welled and blurred his vision. “Who’s out there?!”

  A shadow crossed his beam of light and grass mashed under heavy feet.

  The acrid, burning scent was palpable, stringy sizzles of electricity biting at his eyes and nostrils. Dearborn opened his mouth to bark a command and the snapping jolts surged past his parted lips. His gun and flashlight thumped against the ground as he dropped to his knees and gripped his throat.

  “Sheriff, you okay?” Trish called out into the dark and rainy night. “Sheriff?” Her voice tightened with panic. “Frank?!”

  Seven

  With each blink, Hunter’s lids scraped against her eyes like sandpaper. She was out of tears. She hadn’t known that was possible. Not until last night. Or had it been this morning? She shielded her eyes and squinted up at the gray, cloud-filled sky. It had rained sometime in the wee hours of the morning—the only evidence that the world knew it had lost the great soul of Abigail Goode.

  The screen door creaked open as Mercy emerged from the house. She shuffled across the porch and clomped down the steps. She let out a sound, somewhere between a moan and a sigh and plopped next to Hunter on the bottom step.

  Hunter grimaced as she ran her fingers along the scabbing wounds on her arm. So, she was still able to feel.

  Mercy set her phone down on the walkway between their feet and rested her head on Hunter’s shoulder. Mercy was heavy, a steel anvil where the feather-light young woman had once been. That was one of the strange things about grief. How it turned some into weights and reduced others to the molted skin of the person they’d been. Hunter rubbed her cheek against Mercy’s sable hair. Good thing her sister was there to keep her from blowing away.

  Mercy’s phone chimed and she plucked it up off the concrete.

  Hunter averted her eyes from the screen. She couldn’t bear to see any words about her mother. They were too powerful, too permanent.

  “Kirk?” Hunter asked as Mercy’s thumbs flew across the keyboard.

  Her sister nodded and her phone chimed again.

  “And Emily?”

  Another nod.

  Hunter twirled the end of her ponytail. “They’ll be over soon.” It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be. Whenever the sisters needed their friends, they were always there. Hunter’s phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Jax. She knew Mercy had told him what happened. Even in mourning, her sister was at the top of the phone tree.

  A white-and-gold sheriff’s cruiser turned off Main Street and onto their drive. Hunter stood as the car parked and Deputy Carter climbed out of the driver’s side and straightened the tan cowboy hat he was never without. Mercy hefted herself off the bottom step and mirrored Hunter as the deputy motioned for Sheriff Dearborn to join him outside of the car.

  Deputy Carter’s boots squeaked in the wet grass as he and the sheriff approached the twins and the bull’s blood red porch that had failed to protect their mother.

  The deputy removed his hat and rubbed his thumb against the brim as he blinked down at Hunter and her sister. Emily often mentioned Deputy Chase Carter and how adorable and puppylike he looked with his round gray eyes and his lips locked in a perpetual half smile. But there was nothing to smile about today. Every bit of Deputy Carter’s puppylike appeal had washed away with the rain. “Girls, I am so terribly sorry. We all loved your mother.” He paused before he cleared his throat and nudged the sheriff with his elbow.

  The sheriff grunted and removed his sunglasses. “Yes, your mother. We loved her. She was a, uh, a woman.” Dearborn’s brown eyes scraped against Hunter and the corner of his mouth twitched. “A now deceased woman.”

  The deputy let out a strained barking cough as he settled his hat against his closely cropped hair. “I hate to do this, but we have to go through the events one final time before we close up Abigail’s file.” He removed a pen and a small notepad from his chest pocket and flipped through a few pages before coming to the right one. “Mercy, you’re the one who called 911.”

  Mercy’s hair slipped from her shoulders as she nodded. She pushed it back behind her ear and mouthed a word, but no sound came out. She hadn’t spoken since they’d gotten home. There weren’t words to describe what they each felt. And if there had been, Hunter wouldn’t have wanted to hear them.

  Carter’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a tight swallow. “I’m sorry to ask you to go back through this.” He tapped the point of his pen against the pad.

  Hunter twined her fingers around Mercy’s. They were stronger together, and Hunter needed strength now more than ever.

  “The three of you were out picnicking.” He glanced back down at his notes. “Is that right?”

  “That’s right.” Hunter and her sister spoke in unison.

  Hunter ignored the sheriff, who shifted restlessly in her periphery, and spoke directly to Deputy Carter. “Midnight picnics are a birthday tradition. We do them every year with Mom.”

  A tear rolled down Mercy’s pale cheek and she let out a broken sob. “We did them every year.”

  Hunter squeezed her sister’s hand. She’d be strong enough for both of them. “That’s why we had the candles and incense … They were part of the celebration.” Goose bumps peaked along her arms and she shivered. That wolf had assured that the Goode sisters would never have a true celebration ever again.

  The deputy’s brow creased as he scribbled something onto the paper. “Those were the same candles that started the fire? The blaze that—”

  Mercy’s sob cracked the space between them. “She’s dead!”

  Hunter tensed as she steadied the sinking weight of her sister. Mercy wasn’t built for grief or trauma. Until now, those had always been Hunter’s burden.

  The sheriff fogged his glasses, wiped the lenses with the end of his untucked shirt, and fogged them again. “She won’t have died in vain if you get money out of the whole debacle.” He peered up at the clouds through his lenses before sliding the glasses onto his broad nose. “You could sue. That’s what people do, isn’t it?”

  Hunter’s stomach knotted as she stared at her reflection in Sheriff Dearborn’s mirrored aviators. She’d never wished for the kind of evil dark magic so many people outside of Goodeville believed was part of the Practice. But she wished for it now. Her pendant heated against her chest. It didn’t matter that the sheriff was wrong about how her mother met her end. Hunter wished she could call down the cosmos and send an entire galaxy of stars ripping through him. She didn’t want money. She wanted her mom.

  Deputy Carter clapped the senior officer on the back. “You’ll have to excuse the sheriff. He’s been up a long time. Everything’s got him a little rattled.”

  The sheriff slid his glasses to the end of his nose. “You’d be rattled if you’d seen what I saw. That dead man out there—old man Thompson—with no eyes.” With his middle and pointer fingers he mimed stabbing his eyeballs.

  Hunter tightened her grip on Mercy’s hand as the sheriff wiggled the imaginary eyes in front of them.

  “Ripped right out of his head and then, poof, disappeared.” He threw up his hand. “Swallowed up by who knows what.”

  With a strangled laugh, Deputy Carter tugged on the tip of his hat. “As I said, he’s shaken up by the scene that happened last night out off Quaker Road by the old olive tree.”

  “Not at the olive tree. The tree had nothing to do with it!” Sheriff Dearborn swiped at the beads of sweat popping along his brow. “You girls got a
nything to drink?”

  Hunter released Mercy’s hand. “I’ll get you a glass.”

  Deputy Carter’s puppy-dog face was firmly affixed as he mouthed an apology in Hunter’s direction. She couldn’t even muster the ghost of a polite smile in return as she leaned into her sister and whispered, “You’ll be okay.” It wasn’t a question. It was a reminder.

  The deputy’s words caught Hunter as she shakily headed up the steps toward the front door. “We, uh, we also have to discuss the matter of guardianship.” He took a breath. “You girls don’t happen to have any family close by, do you?”

  Hunter couldn’t look back at her sister who remained silent as Deputy Carter continued softly prodding the details of their family tree.

  Xena meowed and slapped the screen door with her furry paw, refocusing Hunter’s attention.

  “You want out?” Hunter asked as she opened the door. The Maine coon circled Hunter’s ankles and pressed her long body against Hunter’s calves, forcing her inside. Hunter closed the screen and stumbled in. She caught herself on the bannister and crouched down near the foot of the staircase that led up to Mercy’s and her rooms.

  Hunter combed her fingers through Xena’s fur. “I know it’s hard. I miss her, too.” The tears came then. Their well replenished, they rushed from her eyes like strands of pearls.

  Xena chittered and wove figure eights between Hunter’s feet.

  “And now we’ll have to leave our home.” Hunter sagged onto the wood floor and hugged her knees against her chest. “I wish Mom was here.” She pressed her swollen lids against her knees and wept onto her ceremony dress. The dress that she’d hand dyed and chosen to wear to begin her new life, her happier life.

  Xena yowled and pressed her massive front paws against Hunter’s shins. With a sniffle, Hunter raised her head and rested her chin on her damp knees. Xena’s whiskers dusted Hunter’s cheeks as the cat leaned in. Only a sliver of Xena’s amber irises encircled her dilated pupils as she let out a string of clipped meows and sneezed right in Hunter’s face.