by J. D. Barker
Reaching behind me, I grabbed the fire stoke.
“Wait.”
Her long, delicate hands went to her cloak and pulled the hood back.
As her face found the light, my heart froze within my chest.
The girl had escaped from the confines of the church.
“How did you free yourself?”
She shook her head. “You speak of my sister. The magistrate holds her in that tiny damp cell, not I.”
I suspected twins, for no sibling resembled another quite so remarkably unless such was true. “You are wanted, too,” I pointed out. “The charges faced by your sister were brought upon the entire family.”
She nodded. “It bothers me so to be free when she suffers at their hands, but I must help her and I cannot if I am shackled at her side.”
“As a servant of the court, I am obligated to report you,” I told her, the fire stoke still gripped firmly in my hand. “I am obligated to bring you to them.”
“If that is what your heart tells you, then you clearly have no choice.”
Her sad eyes filled with desperation and defeat.
I realized I was staring and looked to the floor. “Why have you come to me?”
She took a step forward. Her warm breath caressed my face. “You are of a good heart, and you know these accusations are untrue.”
“I have said no such thing.”
“What you feel and what you speak are clearly at conflict, but we both know the truth.”
For that, I held no answer. There had been much testimony against her sister. I had even witnessed events firsthand, but a part of me truly did find innocence there, despite the evidence against her.
“Like the others in town, you are afraid the magistrate will charge you as a conspirator if you were to voice your true feelings.”
It was true.
She reached out to me, her delicate fingers wrapping around my hand. “You must help us,” she pleaded. The words to put her touch to paper elude me, for I have never before nor after experienced such a thing. An energy escaped her and found its way to me, slipping across my skin much like rain falling from the heavens. Exquisite, entrancing. I forced myself to pull away and took a step back.
“Are you what they accuse you to be?” I asked, not sure that I wanted to hear the answer.
“I am no more dangerous than you.”
“Do not evade me. Are you what they accuse you to be?” I repeated, no longer concealing the anger in my voice.
“Please, you must help us,” she pleaded.
“I cannot.”
She looked to me, her eyes filled with sorrow. “For that, I am so sorry.”
Her hand came up with such speed, a movement faster than I could have imagined possible. I felt her fingers brush my forehead. “Dormious,” she breathed.
My eyes became heavy; my mind clouded with sleep as my legs disappeared beneath me.
I saw her smile as I fell. I couldn’t help but long for the beauty of it as all went black.
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Day 2 – 9:30 a.m.
RACHAEL WOKE TO A CRASH.
Beside her Ashley stirred, then looked to her as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. “What was that, Mommy?”
Rachael shook her head and pulled back the covers, shivering as the cool morning air found her. “I think it came from outside.”
Rising from the bed, she went to the window and glanced out over their front yard, peering through the unforgiving thick rain. “Damn.”
The large oak tree had succumbed to whatever had killed their lawn the day before and toppled over. Brittle and splintered branches littered their yard, lying atop a pile of brown, dead leaves. “Our tree fell over, sweetie. It’s sick, like the grass.”
Thirty minutes later, they had showered and made their way to the kitchen, where they found Ms. Perez fussing over a quick breakfast. “I already called Señor Paskin and he will be on his way with a crew to remove the old tree as soon as the rain stops, so you just sit and relax and I will take care of everything!”
As soon as the rain stops, right. Rachael took a seat and poured herself a cup of decaf. “Any messages?”
Ms. Perez set a plate of toast and eggs in front of her and shook her head. “No calls, Ms. Rachael. I’m sorry.”
Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? What was he doing?
“I’m hungry, too!” Ashley explained as she pulled herself into her favorite chair.
Ms. Perez brought her a plate. “I didn’t forget about you, little one. Here you are.”
“Ms. Perez, do you think we have rats?” Rachael asked.
Ms. Perez’s eyes grew wide. “Rats! Oh please, no rats. They are foul, foul rodents.”
“You haven’t seen anything?”
“No rats, no mice; this house is very clean all the time,” Ms. Perez protested.
“I’m not blaming you, Ms. Perez. You do a great job. But this is an old house and sometimes they can get in.”
“Maybe with the weather?”
Rachael nodded. “Especially with bad weather.”
Ms. Perez stopped wiping the counter and came over to the table. “Then perhaps I did see something.”
“What?”
“Yesterday, when vacuuming, I thought something ran behind the couch in the living room, but I found nothing when I looked closer,” she said.
“A rat?”
“It was so fast, I cannot be sure,” she told her.
Rachael hesitated for a moment, then stood and went to the living room, the housekeeper following close on her heels.
“I think the light played a trick on me,” she said.
Someone had drawn the drapes in an attempt to block out the dismal weather, leaving the room in a dark gloom all its own. With the windows closed, the space had taken on a musty scent that was bound to awaken her allergies if she remained too long. The stench found her as soon as she neared the couch.
“It stinks, Mommy.”
Rachael turned to find Ashley at the doorway with Buster close on her heels. “You should finish your breakfast, honey. We’ll be right back.”
“I want to chase the rats, too,” she pouted.
Rachael rolled her eyes. “Okay, but stay behind us, all right, sweetie?”
Ashley nodded and sat on the floor. Buster fell to the ground beside her with a grunt.
Cautiously approaching the couch, nausea crept up Rachael’s throat as the pungent odor grew stronger. Ms. Perez came to her side, a broom held high.
Reaching for the corner of the couch, Rachael tugged the heavy piece of furniture away from the wall, ready to jump the moment an uninvited guest appeared.
“Careful, Ms. Rachael,” Ms. Perez said.
Rachael pulled the couch further still, revealing several dirt piles and another hole in the wall similar to the one she had found in her daughter’s room.
“They are smart to hide,” Ms. Perez said, gripping the broom handle hard enough to turn her knuckles white.
Rachael stepped between the couch and the wall and lowered herself to the ground in order to get a closer look.
Like the hole upstairs, this one was also four inches in circumference and appeared to have been cut with some sort of tool—almost too perfect to have been chewed by rats. Cautiously reaching inside, she felt around until her fingers grazed the stud. Also like upstairs, a series of grooves had been cut into the wood, creating a makeshift ladder of sorts.
“Eww,” she heard herself say.
As she turned her head, she realized the odor wasn’t coming from the wall but from the couch.
“Help me up,” she said.
Ms. Perez helped her to her feet, unwilling to surrender the broom. “The hole is new. I would have found it yesterday.”
If that were the case, why no drywall dust or debris? Rachael questioned, keeping the comment to herself.
She turned back to the couch.
“I nee
d you to help me flip this over,” she said, studying the couch carefully. “We need to check the bottom.”
“You should not move furniture.”
“It’s not that heavy. I’ll be all right,” she assured her.
She shook her head. “Mr. Thad would not approve.”
“Mr. Thad is not here right now—I won’t tell him if you don’t,” she replied.
The woman positioned herself on the opposite end of the couch.
Ashley and Buster continued to watch them quietly from the doorway.
“On three we roll it, okay?”
Again, Ms. Perez nodded.
Rachael gripped the back and the bottom of the couch and bent her knees.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three—”
The couch was far heavier than it appeared and both women grunted as its weight shifted in their hands, sending the piece of furniture tumbling forward. Rachael pulled her hands free before they were pinned underneath, grateful to find Ms. Perez had done the same—jumping to the side as the couch tumbled over and settled on its back.
The smell drifted up in a cloud of foul, dank air and Rachael turned away, unwilling to allow the stench to overcome her.
“Oh my,” Ms. Perez said.
Rachael followed her gaze to the underside of the couch, now facing up. Another hole had been cut in the fabric. Just like the others, this one was about four inches in circumference and perfectly round.
Damp earth covered the floor, the same rotten soil they had found throughout the house, piled where the couch had sat.
Whatever had brought the dirt here was clearly building a stockpile inside the couch—the edges of the hole were damp and the stink rose from within. Rachael imagined tiny worms wriggling through the fabric, searching for their next meal. Tiny little worms everywhere she had found the dirt—their yard, in the walls, within furniture, her daughter’s room.
“Mommy, they could be in the couch,” Ashley breathed. “The rats might be hiding.”
Not rats, Rachael thought. It’s something else.
Ms. Perez poked at the bottom of the couch with the broom, but nothing moved; only more dirt filtered out.
“Ms. Perez, please call an exterminator.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, poking the couch one final time.
“Do we have any traps in the house?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “I have not seen any.”
“As soon as the weather breaks, go to the store and pick some up, okay?”
Again, she nodded.
Ashley was standing behind her, her eyes fixed on the hole in the wall. “They’re living in the house, inside the wall, aren’t they, Mommy?”
Rachael turned to her daughter and knelt down. “Don’t worry, honey. I don’t think we have more than one. The furry little guy probably wants to get out of the rain like the rest of us.”
“There’s more than one,” Ashley told her.
Rachael ran her hand through her daughter’s hair. “Why don’t you go finish your breakfast? Ms. Perez and I will take care of this.”
Ashley nodded, then headed back toward the kitchen. Buster eyed the hole suspiciously for a moment longer before following her out of the room.
“Please find something to seal it,” she instructed, “at least until the exterminator gets here.”
Ms. Perez nodded. “I’ll find something in the garage.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Day 2 – 9:50 a.m.
MS. PEREZ STEPPED INTO the garage and crinkled her nose. “¡Esto huele terrible aquí!” she howled. “¡Tal suciedad, en todas partes!”
Noxious odors hit her like a wall.
She fumbled with the light switch, bringing the large fluorescents overhead to life.
Dirt covered the floor, the same foul-smelling dirt they had found inside the house.
Careful not to step in it, Ms. Perez crossed the garage to Mr. Thad’s workbench on the far wall. “So unorganized,” she said, scanning the cluttered shelves. After shuffling past assorted cans of used paint, she spotted a small canister of plaster and drywall patches and scooped them up. She also found a box of mousetraps and rat poison. She knew Ms. Rachael would not want her to place poison around the house, but sometimes these things needed to be done. If the filthy dog was dumb enough to eat the powder, so be it. She couldn’t be expected to clean up after all of them and look out for their mutt, too—not for the little they paid her.
With the arsenal in hand, Ms. Perez headed back into the house, turning off the lights with her elbow.
When Rachael’s hand fell upon the doorknob to her husband’s office, she hesitated.
Was she trespassing?
Of course not. She had been in the room more times than she could count.
With Thad, always with Thad.
He wouldn’t care, though, would he? They don’t have any secrets.
This is his space. His private place.
Why was her heart racing so? This was ridiculous. If he had been home to ask, he would tell her to go right in; maybe straighten up a little while she was in there, he would joke.
She recalled her dream from the other night, how the door stood open. The journal, left unguarded on his desk.
Drawing a breath deep into her lungs, she twisted the knob and crept over the threshold. The light from the hallway sliced into the dark room and she followed behind it, stepping only in its wake.
His office felt cold, the air stale. She glanced up. The vent was open. The central heat was on.
Reaching across the desk, she turned on the Tiffany reading lamp. Its glow creeped over the dark space, sending the shadows scurrying to the corners.
What am I doing?
Years had passed since he had cheated on her, only the one time.
You were pregnant then. About nine months in, just like now.
They were in such a bad place back then. His failed first novel had brought little income. There were so many bills and the landlord—God, she had almost forgotten Mr. Rainey. His incessant pounding on their door at all hours. Thad, eyes wide, shushing her with a finger to his lips. If she hadn’t taken a second shift at the donut shop, they surely would have moved back in with her parents.
She had hated him. Hated how he had plucked her from her life and trapped her, trapped her in an impoverished marriage with a child on the way. She had given up everything for him: school, career, any chance at a successful future.
He secretly blamed her for getting pregnant. He resented her, she knew he did.
And the drinking.
The only thing keeping his drinking in check was their lack of funds.
He had been working around the clock with her, this Alyssa. A twenty-something brunette brought in by his publisher to help edit the second book. He wrote at a maddening pace, scrawling the text in his journal; a reckless hand, unreadable by most. His publisher tasked this girl with putting Thad’s words to paper and making sense of his work. They spent days together locked in a small office downtown, huddled over that damn journal. She imagined Thad over her shoulder as she typed frantically at a computer. A whiff of her hair, the scent of perfume, the hint of a breast behind a thin blouse as she bent to turn the page. It was bound to occur, the two of them alone, his home life in ruins.
He had told her that same night, collapsing at her feet in tears. Smelling of bourbon, he had confessed the entire torrid episode. He explained how they had finished the book, how incredible this one was—beyond anything else he had ever done. He told her they had gotten caught up in the celebration, lost in the excitement.
Rachael had been too bitter to care, to feel an ounce of jealousy.
The girl boarded a plane, gone from their lives. Manuscript in hand, she returned to New York.
Rachael planned to leave Thad the next morning, and would have if not for his publisher’s phone call just after first light. He had met Alyssa at the airport and read the entire book, unable to put the s
tory down. The girl had raved, and with good reason. Thad had a bestseller on his hands. He had no doubt. And they planned to put every possible resource behind this one.
And they had.
A FedEx envelope had arrived a day later containing a $10,000 advance check and two first-class tickets to the city.
Fewer than six months later, Thad was at the top of the New York Times fiction list.
Talk of a movie followed.
That was the first book he had written in the journal, the first of many.
In the years that followed, Thad still drank but only in moderation. The man she had hated during that dark time faded away along with their problems, replaced by the caring father and husband he was today. All of this seemed a lifetime ago.
He had cheated on her, and while there was no excuse, she had forgiven him. They had moved on.
She learned to trust him again.
You want to trust him.
When was the last time he touched you?
She closed the door and studied the room.
His desk was bare but for his MacBook and a ream of crisp, white paper beside the printer.
She searched each drawer and found the usual clutter: paper clips, old magazines, rubber bands, pens, pencils, the anniversary card she had given him in January. A rose on the cover. She opened it—My love, may our next year be as happy as the last. Love always, R.
She stared down at the card.
Once a cheater…
Rachael replaced the card and powered on his laptop.
The familiar Apple logo blinked past and the screen settled on his desktop. No password set.
Clicking through the various icons, she loaded his mail program and scanned his e-mails. Dozens contained spam and advertisements. Four messages were from Del (a waste of time); two jokes forwarded from Facebook, and the third was a picture of a rotten tomato with the caption We’re making a movie! Get your ass to NY! The fourth contained only his flight itinerary.
The oldest e-mail came from his publisher. The subject read—Proposed Cover Art. She clicked on it, opening the message:
From: Ryan Dermotte
To: Thad McAlister
Date: Thursday, December 03, 2014 8:14 pm
Subject: Proposed Cover Art