by J. D. Barker
“I can’t believe this,” Rachael told him. “Everything was fine yesterday.”
Paskin threw the rest of his tools back into his truck and climbed into the cab, slamming the rusty door behind him. “Don’t worry, Mrs. McAlister. I’ll take good care of you. We’ll find a way to fix this. You stay well now.”
Rachael watched the old Ford pickup lumber down their long driveway and disappear down Border Road, heading in the direction of Dover. Behind her, Buster stood at the large picture window, his furry paws pressed against the glass, his tail wagging nervously at his back.
“I know how you feel, boy,” she frowned.
CHAPTER NINE
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
REVEREND DEODAT LAWSON, A visiting preacher, delivered the opening prayer. I could not help but gaze upon those around me, their eyes down or closed, some watching her with hate and fear, few actually taking in the reverend’s words. When he concluded, he asked the congregation to join him in a psalm. It was then that Abigail Williams interrupted. “Now, there is enough of that.” She pointed to a rat, which scurried across a beam high above them. “Her familiar is here; I imagine the spirits of her sisters are here, too. We must get on with it.” Around her, the afflicted and their loved ones rattled in agreement, their voices growing from a hush to that of an angered mob in mere moments.
“Enough!” Constable Joseph Herrick shouted above them.
“Pray give me leave to go to prayer,” the girl breathed her first words since capture, bringing the congregation to silence. The court tried to ignore her request but she insisted, this time facing the magistrate directly.
“We did not bring you here to go to prayer,” Tauber replied, “but to tell us why you hurt these children of God.” He gestured around the room, his bony finger landing on the afflicted, her accusers.
“I am an innocent person, as are my sisters. I have never had anything to do with witchcraft since I was born. I am a woman of gospel.”
“Have you not witnessed their complaints?”
“The Lord open the eyes of the magistrate and minister,” she commanded. “The Lord show His power to discover the guilty.”
“If you would expect mercy of God,” he told her, “you must look for it in God’s way, by confession.”
“You are a righteous, educated man. You should not believe these persons.”
Tauber was in no mood to have her advise him. “Did you not say our eyes were blinded, you would open them?”
“You accuse the innocent. Your behavior is blindness indeed,” she said.
“Yet they swear by their statements, these people of God.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “What can I do? Many rise up against me for no reason other than spite. Abigail herself has told others how she longed for beauty such as mine. Her jealousy is mindful whenever she gazes upon me.”
“That is not true!” Abigail shouted out.
“Clearly, the magistrate believes so. His fingers searched my bare skin for marks of the devil with the pleasure of a man many years his younger.” She smiled up at him.
“Enough of this!” he ordered with strength enough to send her back into her chair. “Do not you believe witches are in this country?”
She smiled. “I have not made their acquaintance.”
He ordered her to stop biting her lip, for the afflicted were now suggestible to her every move, some clearly chewing their own lips.
“What harm is there in it?” she asked.
But if she clenched her hands, her alleged victims felt it—and showed the bruises. If she slumped forward against the seat that served as a bar, they bore pain from that, too. When she shifted her feet, the afflicted stamped thunderously like helpless puppets. Again, she smiled.
“She dares practice witchcraft in the congregation?” Reverend Lawson proclaimed in amazement. “Tighten her bonds and put an end to this,” he ordered.
I watched as Constable Herrick hurried over and tied her ankles to the chair legs and her wrists to the wooden arms. The rope was wrapped so tight her skin became pale. I feared for her, yet she seemed unfazed. Instead, the pain appeared to bring her strength. She glared out at the afflicted from behind those dark blue eyes, a hatred burning into them. It was clear they wanted to turn away, but simply did not. I also found myself unable to take my gaze from her, her image truly bewitching, intoxicating.
Although he tried to hide such, fear filled Tauber’s face. “Who is your God?” he asked bluntly, knowing as well as anyone that witches worshipped Satan.
“The God who made me,” she countered.
Although her hands were bound, she snapped her long nails against each other in such an incessant rhythm. I heard nothing else.
Clickity, click, click.
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER TEN
Day 1 – 5:00 p.m.
“HEY, DEL!” THAD SAID, extending his hand across the table.
“Sorry we’re late, Thad. Traffic in this city can be brutal this time of day, and our driver seemed to have a knack for picking the worst possible route to virtually every destination,” the heavyset man told him with an apologetic look in his eyes. Nodding to his left, he said, “I’d like you to meet Roger Burstein. He’s with Foundry Pictures.”
“No worries,” Thad told him. “I got here a few minutes ago.” He gestured to the empty table. “Gentlemen, please make yourselves comfortable.”
Del maneuvered his large frame into a chair and unbuttoned his dark gray coat. “Burstein here bugged the hell out of me for the past week to get to this table—something about wanting first shot at making your latest stack of scribble into one of those moving pictures the kids are so fond of these days. What do you think? Should we hear him out?”
Thad had known Del Thomas for the better part of a decade; he was never one to be subtle. “I don’t think it would hurt to hear what he has to offer.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. McAlister,” Mr. Burstein said. “I promise I won’t waste your time.”
“Ah, famous last words,” Del cracked.
The waitress arrived a moment later and took their drink orders, then proceeded to recite the catch and soup of the day before handing them menus and disappearing into the kitchen.
“She’s a cutie,” Del said. “Think she’s into balding fat guys with heart conditions?”
“I’d tell you yes, but I decided a long time ago I wouldn’t spin fiction unless I could sell it,” Thad joked.
“I like you better when you’re locked in your little office making me money.”
“Ah,” Thad said. “The truth finally comes out.”
Across the table, Roger Burstein took a drink of water, the glass shaking in his hand. He was drumming the fingers of his left hand on the top of his briefcase.
Thad had a rather uncomfortable relationship with the movie studios, one that had clearly been reported to this man prior to his being dispatched. Of the three film adaptations of his novels, none had lived up to his expectations—the first, Wicked Ways, didn’t resemble the original story at all. By the time the story made its way to film, his vision had been hacked, re-edited, and rewritten so many times by more hands than he could count—all of them opting for shock value rather than holding true to the story. They wanted a big box office on a low budget and cared about nothing other than getting a film out before the hype surrounding the best-selling novel petered out. Thad had watched the premiere with his wife in total disgust, vowing never to sell film rights again unless he had some form of creative control. For the next two movies, he had been on set each day and personally approved all script changes, ensuring they held true to the novel and the screenplay he had also insisted on drafting. While these films didn’t possess the box office draw of the first, they lived up to the story and his true fans had been pleased.
“You know I’ll want total creative control, right?” Thad told Burstein point-blank, watching the man’s eyes fo
r a reaction.
Burstein cleared his throat. “We assumed as much,” he said. “Based on your history, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Do you have a director in mind?”
Opening his briefcase, the man reached inside and retrieved a sheet of manila paper. After a quick review, he handed the page to Thad. “It’s a rather short list. We started with the people you expressed an interest in working with on the last one, then narrowed them down to the few who will be available based on a preliminary production schedule.”
“You have a production schedule already?” Del mused. “Aren’t you jumping the gun a little? Hell, you haven’t read it yet. What if the book is shit?”
Burstein forced a nervous smile. “We want you to know how serious we are about this project. We want to time the film release with the paperback in roughly nine months, which doesn’t allow much time for preparation.”
“I don’t want to rush this, Del,” Thad told his agent.
“And you won’t have to,” Burstein fired back before Del Thomas could reply. “We’ll work with you at your own pace, even if it means missing the paperback release—that just happens to be an ideal release date.”
“What kind of money are we talking about?” Del broke in.
“Not everything’s about money, Del,” Thad countered.
Del smirked. “Don’t kid yourself, Thad. It’s always about money.”
“We’re prepared to offer you four million for the screenplay and film rights, along with points on the back end,” Burstein replied.
Thad had never received points before, but he understood how lucrative they could be. On his last film, he had been paid one million for the screenplay and film rights, which he thought was pretty good considering the one before that only paid two hundred thousand. However, the film had gone on to make nearly forty-five million in box office and DVD sales. If he had received points, he would have stood to make nearly six million more than he had. At this stage in his career, he had been prepared to forego up-front-money in order to get a portion of the profits. He wasn’t expecting to receive both—four million plus points was much more than he had ever anticipated.
“Seven million plus points,” Del shot back. “We all know this picture is going to make at least fifty million based on the performance of Thad’s previous three films. Hell, we may even hit sixty million. The publisher is planning one of the largest print productions for a work of fiction in the past decade. Thad’s e-book sales are through the roof. At seven plus points, you’re still stealing this deal.”
Burstein fell silent for a moment, his hands once again drumming the top of his briefcase. “I’m prepared to go as high as five million, but that’s the best I can do.”
Del shook his head and placed his napkin on his lap as the waitress arrived with their drinks. “Well, Mr. Burstein. I suggest you enjoy your meal today, because the only thing you’re going to see us sign is the credit card receipt.”
“This is a very good offer,” Burstein told him.
“I agree,” Del replied. “But it’s not the most lucrative offer we’re entertaining right now, and frankly I don’t feel like playing Let’s Make a Deal. You’ve got our terms; if you can’t match them, I’m afraid our business today is over.” To the waitress, he said, “I think I’ll go with the clam chowder—I’ve been craving seafood all day. Thad, what’ll you have?”
Thad stared at him for a moment before breaking out of his reverie. “Ah, yeah, I think I’ll get a sirloin; medium-well, please.”
The waitress eyed Burstein, whose face was bright red as he held back his anger. “The sirloin is fine. Rare, please,” he told her. Turning to Thad, he said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. I need to make a call.”
With cell phone in hand, he left the table and hurried to the lobby.
The waitress picked up their menus, told them someone would return momentarily with their salads, then disappeared toward the kitchen.
“Del, are you high?” Thad exclaimed. “That man’s head is going to explode! You don’t really think we can get seven million plus points, do you?”
Del shook his head. “Naw, we’re going to get six. If this guy can’t cough it up, I’m sure somebody else will. Don’t you read the trades? You’re holding the most anticipated manuscript of the decade in that briefcase of yours.”
“Christ,” Thad replied. “I need a drink.”
“We’ll make it a celebratory toast when this guy signs on the dotted line,” Del told him, nodding toward Burstein, who was pacing the sidewalk just outside the restaurant now, his cell phone pressed firmly against his ear.
Less than a decade ago, he had been holding down two part-time jobs while trying to draft his first book. In his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have possibly imagined…
“Rachael is never going to believe this,” he marveled.
“Is the book any good?” Del asked while buttering a roll. “Never mind; don’t answer that. It doesn’t really matter at this point, and I don’t want you to diminish my mojo.”
“Your mojo?”
Del smirked. “What? You don’t think you got here on talent, do you? My mojo paved this road, baby.”
“It’s different.”
“Huh?”
“You asked me if the book was good, and it is,” Thad told him. “But this one is different from anything else I’ve ever done. Honestly, Del, I don’t know how the story will play out as a movie, I really don’t.”
“You got the manuscript on you?” Del asked. “Your publisher wanted me to drop it off tomorrow.”
Thad hesitated, then reached into his briefcase, removing the manuscript. The tome felt warm. “Guard this one with your life; I don’t want to see excerpts in the National Examiner.”
“You got it,” Del said, his pudgy fingers wrapping around the text.
“I’m not kidding,” Thad told him. “I don’t want a word of this novel getting out until publication. The whole world needs to read this story at once—no favors or sneak peeks this time, not for anyone.”
Del pulled the manuscript to his chest. “I will eat this treasured stack of dead trees before I will allow it to fall into the hands of the enemy, Scout’s honor.”
“No eating the manuscript, Del.”
“Yes, sir.”
Del locked the novel in his own briefcase, then glanced up as Burstein returned to the table. “Hey, look who’s back! So, did your boss dig some cash out from under his mattress or are we going to have to raid somebody else’s coffer?”
Burstein took a drink and sighed. “I can offer you six million up front and points on the back end, but that’s as high as we can go without digging into the promotional budget. That wouldn’t help any of us.”
Del winked at Thad. “So, what do you think, buddy? You wanna make a movie?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Day 1 – 5:05 p.m.
CARMEN PEREZ MOVED THE chair a little to the left and swore under her breath as she found another small pile of dirt hidden beneath. She had found eight others like it under other pieces of furniture; she even found some at the back of one of the cabinets in the kitchen.
“Messy little child,” she said. “Bringing such filth in from the outside.”
With a dust pan and small brush, she swept up the dirt and deposited the waste in the trash can she had been carrying around. “She wouldn’t make such a mess if she had to clean up after herself,” she complained.
“What’s wrong, Carmen?”
Perez turned to find Rachael standing at the living room’s doorway.
If this woman could control her child, I wouldn’t spend the day cleaning up after her.
“Miss Ashley is bringing filth into the house,” she blurted out. “This has been going on for a few days. Today I found dirt in cabinets, under furniture; I do not know where else she has put such filth, but this must stop. This is not the behavior of a respectful child.”
Rachael stepped into the room and eyed the trash can.
“Phew,” she breathed.
“Very filthy,” Carmen agreed.
“If that’s from outside, you need to be careful,” she told her. “Mr. Paskin thought the yard might be contaminated—you should wash your hands and be sure you’re wearing gloves if you find any more.”
“Oh, so now she is going to make me sick with her little games,” Ms. Perez stated flatly.
Rachael rolled her eyes. “I’m sure she didn’t mean anything. Kids sometimes do strange things to entertain themselves. Do you know where she is?”
“No, Ms. Rachael,” Perez said.
“Ashley!” Rachael yelled, her voice echoing through the large home. “Come here, baby!”
A moment later, Ashley poked into the room, toting her stuffed Winnie the Pooh.
Rachael knelt down beside her and pointed to the chair. “Ms. Perez found dirt underneath that chair and in a few other places; did you bring it in from outside?”
Ashley shook her head.
“Now, what did I tell you about telling the truth?”
Ashley pouted. “I didn’t do it, I don’t like dirt. It’s messy and yucky and stinky.”
Rachael took a deep breath. “Ashley, I didn’t carry dirt in here, and Ms. Perez certainly didn’t. If not you, then who? Buster?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “The outside smells yucky. Daddy told me not to play outside and I haven’t.”
Ms. Perez voiced something in Spanish under her breath, then went back to cleaning up the mess.
Rachael brushed the hair from her daughter’s eyes. “Okay, honey.” She wasn’t in the mood to argue right now. The baby was kicking again and she wanted to get off her feet. “Just stay in the house like your daddy said until we figure out what happened, okay?”
“I said I was,” Ashley insisted.
“Okay, sweetie. Go wash up for dinner; we’re going to eat soon.”