The Fifth Petal

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The Fifth Petal Page 5

by Brunonia Barry


  “Just a tad, Edith. May I have the remote?”

  Callie turned to the screen as the broadcaster said, “A killer banshee.”

  The image shifted to a photo of an old woman pushing a cart. Her hair was long and white and wild, and it seemed to trail in her wake. She had a hateful look on her face. Underneath, the caption read: THE BANSHEE OF SALEM.

  Callie stared at the screen. The woman looked so familiar, yet she couldn’t quite place her.

  “If looks could kill,” the first newscaster said.

  “Seems like they just might have,” the other rejoined. “The alleged, and I stress that word, the alleged homeless killer banshee’s name is Rose Whelan.”

  The remote clattered to the ground.

  “If that name rings a bell for some of our longtime viewers, it should,” the second newscaster said. “Rose Whelan was once the prime suspect in Salem’s still unsolved Goddess Murders.”

  Callie couldn’t speak. She did not reach for the remote but stood staring at the television and rubbing her left hand.

  “Are you okay, dear?” asked Edith.

  “The young victim’s name has not yet been released, pending notification of his family.”

  Callie leaned down to retrieve the dropped remote, and Edith saw something on the young woman’s left hand she had never noticed before. “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked. Was it a tattoo of some kind? No, not a tattoo. A burn maybe? Or a scar. Whatever it was cast a shadow across the young woman’s palm. The older woman took a closer look. It was a scar. Why had she never noticed it before? Symmetrical and centered on Callie’s palm was the image of Edith’s favorite flower, a rose.

  No Christian burial was allowed for those hanged for witchcraft in 1692. However, the account of Rebecca Nurse’s son rowing six miles down the North River to recover his mother’s body and give her a proper burial is well documented. Later, though no one knows exactly when, the remains of the others accused and executed that dark year simply disappeared from the crevasse into which their bodies were unceremoniously dumped. Logically, the question follows: Where did they go?

  —ROSE WHELAN, The Witches of Salem

  Rafferty walked Barry Marcus out of the police station. Except for the diamond stud in one ear, the lawyer looked the way you hoped a successful defense attorney would look on his way to court: dark blue suit, white shirt, red-and-blue-striped tie. Rafferty fastened his coat, covering yesterday’s rumpled button-down shirt, now sporting a coffee stain on its breast pocket.

  Shortly after sunrise, Rose had been transported to Salem Hospital via ambulance. Rafferty had her taken out the back door of the station and instructed the ambulance crew to drive down Jefferson Avenue to Salem Hospital’s rear entrance and take her in through the emergency room for admission. “You know you can’t hold her,” Barry was saying to him now. “You can’t even charge her without the kid’s autopsy results. Last time I checked, yelling at a juvenile delinquent who’s threatening you with a knife wasn’t a crime.”

  “There are no plans to formally charge her. Not yet, anyway. She’s in the hospital on the orders of her doctor, Zee Finch.”

  They stepped outside into the morning glare as a reporter shoved a microphone in Rafferty’s face.

  “Is it true you’ve found a link between last night’s killing and the Goddess Murders?”

  “Who told you that?” Rafferty asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

  “Several people,” the reporter replied in a goading tone.

  “Well, they don’t know what they’re talking about.” As soon as he said it, he saw Barry raise an eyebrow, and Rafferty regretted the remark. He was exhausted. He’d had at least six cups of coffee, not counting the one he’d spilled on himself, and he hadn’t been home at all, hadn’t even called Towner to give her an update.

  As they walked away, Barry leaned in. “Next time, just say ‘No comment.’ ”

  When they pulled up to the hospital, it was swarming with news teams.

  “Is it true she killed a kid with her voice?”

  “She’s a descendant of a witch, is that right?”

  “Did Satan make her do it?”

  “What’s wrong with you people? You can’t kill someone with your voice!” Rafferty wanted to shout right back. But all he did was glance at Barry Marcus and say, “No comment.”

  The two men made their way to the locked psych ward on the seventh floor, passing through the security doors to find Zee waiting for them. She and Barry greeted each other.

  “What happened to your face?” Barry asked, noticing Zee’s bandage.

  “Rose happened,” Rafferty said.

  “I’d like to see the confession,” Zee said, her hand on Rose’s door.

  “I told her that was your call,” Rafferty explained.

  Barry reached into his briefcase and handed Zee a copy of the torn page from Rose’s journal. She read it over a few times before she looked up. “This can’t be admissible, can it?” She handed the paper back to Barry.

  “If and when the time comes, that would certainly be my argument. Let’s go in. It goes without saying,” Barry added, “but I’ll say it for the record: She will have no visitors while she is here—family and attending physicians only.”

  “I’ve already left that order,” Zee said. “And I’ll rebrief the staff about HIPAA compliance. We’re going to have to hold a commitment hearing to keep her here.”

  “Not for any legal reason,” Barry said.

  “She’s a murder suspect,” Rafferty said. “That’s legal reason enough.”

  “Not to hospitalize her, it isn’t.”

  “On my orders. For her own protection,” Zee said. “I’ve been treating Rose for some time. But she clearly needs hospitalization now. Still, we have to follow procedures, since she’s unresponsive.”

  Barry nodded. “Who’s the judge?”

  “Usually Tremblay.”

  “He’s not bad, but I need to be there. Just let me know when.”

  They pushed the door open and found themselves in a dimly lit room. Rose was staring at the ceiling and tied to the bed in four-point restraints. “Is that really necessary?” Barry asked.

  “She was violent at the station,” Rafferty said, gesturing to Zee’s face.

  “She was agitated,” Zee corrected.

  “What’s her diagnosis?” Barry asked Zee.

  “It’s a little early for diagnosis—”

  “Okay, then. What was the diagnosis twenty-five years ago? After the Goddess Murders.”

  “A conversion disorder as the result of complex trauma.”

  “And how long was she catatonic then?”

  “I’m not sure catatonic is the right term.”

  “I’ll rephrase. How long was she uncommunicative?”

  “Almost a year.”

  “Okay,” he said again. The three looked at Rose for an awkward moment. Barry shook his head. “Doesn’t look like I’ll accomplish much by talking with her. Let me know when the commitment hearing is. I’ll be in touch with you both.” He looked at the restraints again. “And get those things off of her ASAP.” He headed for the door, and Rafferty opened it for him, just as a uniformed officer arrived to stand guard.

  The lawyer left the room, and Zee and Rafferty stood together silently, watching Barry’s back disappear down the hall. “I don’t envy you this case,” Zee said.

  “Right back at you,” Rafferty said.

  “I mean, this can’t be easy personally,” Zee clarified. “You and Rose are friends.”

  She was giving him the opportunity to talk about his feelings, the way any good therapist might. But she wasn’t his therapist, though she had once been Towner’s. He pressed his lips together and shrugged. Truth be told, he felt a little uneasy around Zee Finch. It was she and Towner who were really friends—they worked together at the shelter for abused women and children that Towner’s family ran on Yellow Dog Island and also at the tearoom Towner owned and managed in to
wn, which employed the abuse victims who were ready to make their way back into the world. And even before that…Towner’s terrible childhood and her breakdown were legendary in Salem. She had needed counseling, and Zee had a personal understanding of complex trauma that made her the right choice. She’d been instrumental in helping Towner recover. Still, Rafferty felt Zee knew too much, both about Towner’s history and about their rocky path back together after their separation. Being around Dr. Finch for too long made him uncomfortable.

  “I know you care about Rose,” Zee offered.

  “We all care about her,” he said.

  She waited for him to continue.

  “I hate to cut this cleverly disguised attempt at a therapy session short, but I have to get back to work.”

  Zee laughed and shrugged. “I’ll get you on the couch one of these days, my friend.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  It may be most widely known as the site of the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692, but this colorful, coastal city has much to offer both residents and visitors: a culturally diverse population, a rich maritime heritage, an impressive display of historic architecture and amazing stories that span almost four centuries.

  —The Comprehensive Salem Guide

  Callie drove from Northampton, pulling off the Mass Pike onto 128, then following Route 114 to Salem, missing a turn along the way and ending up down by the waterfront. She turned left and drove up by the common, circling the statue of Roger Conant to change direction and head back toward the station.

  Rose is alive? How is that possible? They told me she was dead.

  After the newscast had ended, Callie simply left the nursing home. She didn’t check in with her supervisor, the longtime prioress of both the nursing home and the children’s home where she’d spent most of her early years. Sister Mary Agatha was her name, but the girls at the home had nicknamed her Sister Mary Agony, and the name had stuck. Though a big part of her wanted to storm into Agony’s office and demand to know why they had lied to her, Callie couldn’t do it. Not right now. Not without losing it altogether. She just had to get out of there. She didn’t tell anyone she was leaving. Instead, she went home, packed an overnight bag, and started driving to a place she had once promised herself she would never set foot in again. She drove as if in a trance.

  Rose was alive!

  Salem didn’t look at all the way Callie remembered it from her childhood: a struggling city, a historic seaport that had seen better days, its harbor district dotted with hippie houses and a few witch shops. What she saw now was a collection of upscale shops, restaurants, and restored homes whose grandeur rivaled the antebellum mansions of the south. Witch kitsch was liberally scattered through the downtown landscape, along with haunted houses and psychic reading studios.

  Though Callie had only a handful of memories from her life in Salem, the moments she remembered were vivid and crystal clear, more like snapshots or videos capturing precise moments in time, with no trace of what came between. Her therapists—she’d had a few; the nuns had seen to that—had tried to get her to fill in the blanks, to paint a more comprehensive picture for them, but Callie hadn’t seen the point. The few times she’d tried their exercise, it felt contrived or, worse, as if she were picking up their cues, giving them what they wanted in a effort to satisfy their morbid curiosity about what happened that night. Eventually she’d stopped therapy and stopped thinking about it altogether. Callie was a practical girl. Re-creating the worst time in her life had done little to heal her; all it did was keep reminding her. If there were times she couldn’t remember, it was just as well.

  She did remember Rose, though. Not as much from the night of the murders as from before them. Rose had been a respected scholar of the Salem witch trials who had written several books on the subject and opened a research library in Salem, a place Callie’s mother and her friends referred to simply as the center. People came from all over the world to research the witch trials, both for scholarly purposes and to look up the history of their ancestors. Each of the girls on the hill that night had initially come to the center looking for information about her ancestors, leapfrogging over present-day branches of family in favor of finding roots that traced back to 1692. In that way, Rose had always supposed that the girls were all a family of a sort, and she’d treated them as if she were their mother.

  To the rest of the city, Rose had been professional, coldly academic, and dedicated to her research. She’d kept Salem’s elite at a distance. But she’d been different with the girls and even more different with Callie.

  Callie remembered how Rose would pick her up from school and the two of them would go walking all over the city together before they made their way back to their house on Daniels Street. It had always been Rose who came for her, or almost always. It certainly hadn’t been her mother, Olivia. She could see Rose’s long braid swinging as they strolled and felt her own shorter, curly ponytail keeping the same rhythm. Auntie Rose had liked to tie Callie’s hair with a satin ribbon, a different color for every day of the week.

  Callie took a right onto Derby Street, careful not to miss it this time, and turned right again on Central, following it to the police station. But the station had moved; the building was condos now. She pulled into a space and leaned out the window, asking the first man who passed by for directions, smiling flirtatiously to get his attention and nodding encouragingly as he gave her directions to the new station. She felt his disappointment as she pulled the car away.

  She had to circle Riley Plaza twice before she spotted the broadcast vans blocking the stairs. She found a space, locked the Volvo, then elbowed her way through the news crews and up the stairs to the front desk.

  “I’m here to see Rose Whelan,” she announced.

  “We told you all to wait outside,” the desk officer said. “We’re not dealing with any more reporters today.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” Callie explained. “I’m her niece.”

  It was a small lie but an effective one. The officer looked surprised. Then he picked up a phone and punched in some numbers.

  “I’ve got a girl out here says she’s the banshee’s niece.”

  A moment later the door opened and a tall man who seemed to duck more from habit than from necessity stepped through the doorway. He was muscular with bristly dark hair and brown eyes, good-looking in a rough way. He looked as if he were born with the jaded expression that defined his face.

  “Rose has no family that I’m aware of,” he said.

  “My name is Callie Cahill,” she said, working to keep her demeanor smooth; her therapists had always told her she was very good at hiding her anxiety. She could tell he recognized the name. “I’m not technically her niece—”

  “John Rafferty,” he said, holding the door for her as he showed her into his office, then closing it quickly against the officers who had started to gather.

  Though he knew the name, he was still suspicious. “You sure you’re not just some reporter pretending to be Callie Cahill?”

  “Far from it,” she said. Instead of explaining further, she shoved her hand across the desk, opening her clenched fist to expose her palm.

  The stigmata. This was the part of the story that everyone had heard about and what everyone wanted to see. The nuns at St. James’s had claimed it was a miracle when they found Callie the morning after the homicides, calling her a “sacred child” who had been saved from death by the mark of Christ. They’d worked closely with DCF to have Callie entrusted to their group home in western Massachusetts, promising to find her suitable foster care. They had probably thought they’d discovered a church miracle right here in Salem. But later, as the murder investigation had gotten under way and the grim details of the Goddess Murders had come out, rumors had begun to circulate about the “occult ceremony” the young women and Rose had performed on that Halloween night, and she remembered how quickly the narrative had turned.

  Rafferty averted his eyes as if the looking it
self was a violation. “Is it painful?”

  His question took Callie by surprise. She considered it for a long moment before answering. “Sometimes.” She felt awkward and quickly changed the subject, bringing it back to Rose. “How did the boy on the hill die?”

  “I can’t tell you that yet.”

  “The news called Rose a killer banshee.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Rose says she had to kill the boy because he was turning.”

  “Turning? What does that mean?”

  “At this point we don’t know what she meant by that. She also claims to have killed him by screaming at him. Which we all know is impossible.”

  For a moment, it occurred to Callie that Rafferty might be wrong. The human voice could shatter glass, couldn’t it? Hadn’t she heard something about governments testing sonic weapons with the capacity to both maim and kill? Sound certainly had the ability to heal; she’d used it herself many times at the nursing home. If sound could heal, couldn’t it also kill? But even if it were a possibility, the Rose Whelan that Callie remembered was not capable of intentionally killing anyone.

  “Who is the boy?”

  “He’s—was—the grandnephew of a local Brahmin.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A bad kid from a good family.”

  “Does Rose say why she thinks she’s responsible?”

  “Rose isn’t saying anything at the moment. I think she believes a banshee that lives inside of her killed him.”

  Callie stared at him.

  “How much do you know about Rose?” Rafferty asked.

  “Up until today, I thought Rose was dead.”

  Rafferty looked surprised.

  “That’s what the nuns at the children’s home told me. My mother and Cheryl and Susan were all dead. And so was Auntie Rose. Or so they said.”

  “They lied to you?”

  “Evidently.”

  “Rose isn’t well,” Rafferty explained. “She hasn’t been the same since that night in 1989.”

 

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