The aide spoke first. “What is that supposed to do? Is it meant to heal her?”
“It’s intended to balance her,” Callie said, without turning away from Rose.
“Fascinating,” the nurse said, not meaning it.
She went back to the front desk; the aide remained, looking from Callie to Rose and back. Finally, she turned and walked out.
Callie could see no sign that the shiver she thought she’d seen earlier had been real. Rose appeared exactly the same. “Come on, Auntie Rose,” she whispered, as much prayer as command. “Come back to me.”
She walked over to the door and closed it again, sealing the room.
Once again, she began to play. It took a while for the vibration to build, but when it did, Callie could feel it, not only in her fingers but in every bone and muscle.
She played until her wrist throbbed and her back muscles ached from bending over the bowl. Then, just as she was about to give up, she saw the shiver again. She circled the rim once more, forcefully, leaving a trail of rubbery dust around the edge of the bowl. She joined the sound with voweled tones, creating a shifting harmonic as it moved up and down the scale: om, ah, ee. Finally, her voice found Rose’s home note, weak though it was, and held the tone. The volume circled and built until it was so loud, Callie had to will herself not to cover her ears. At its peak, she stopped and stood perfectly still, letting the sound fade to an extended silence, a stillness sound healers consider sacred.
Rose blinked. Callie stared at her as the silence held, wishing someone else was with them to bear witness. “Rose?”
Rose coughed once. Then, looking straight ahead, she began to speak.
“I am a cipher.”
Callie stared.
“I carry no weight, no worth, no influence. I represent nothing. I do not exist.”
It was as if Rose were speaking to someone—or something—beyond the realm of sight. Then, slowly, she sat up in her bed, tripping an alarm that had replaced the restraints. The aide and the nurse burst into the room, pushing past Callie as they hurried to Rose’s bedside. “Careful,” the nurse said, holding Rose to support her. “Let me help you.”
Rose pulled back as if stung.
“It’s okay,” the nurse said. “You’re okay.”
Rose hissed at the nurse, pointing a witchy index finger. “You turn away when you pass me on the street.” The guard was now standing in the doorway. Rose turned to the aide. “You run from me when you should embrace me.”
The aide took a step backward.
“But remember this as you flee: You brought me into existence. I am not the cause, I am merely the effect.”
The aide stepped back, and the nurse let go of Rose. “I’m going to call Dr. Finch.”
The policeman stayed by the door, as if nailed there.
Rose turned to look at Callie, staring for a long moment. Then, slowly, her eyes filled with tears and she reached for Callie’s hand.
It’s outrageous that she hasn’t been charged. It’s time for this town to ditch that witch.
—@TRUTHSEEKER247
Rafferty chewed an antacid tablet. Since Rose’s awakening, he’d given up his usual four cups of coffee and had started living on this stuff, sometimes forgetting to eat until the end of the day. The news had traveled fast, HIPAA laws be damned, and someone had shared it with the press. It could have been his own guard for all he knew. At any rate, someone had talked, telling people the crazy pronouncements Rose had made. Now he was fielding several angry calls a day from good citizens wanting to know when he was going to charge her for what had happened to the boy and for the Goddess Murders twenty-five years ago. Propelled by Helen Barnes’s petition, more and more Salemites were in favor of exhuming the Goddesses. It was ghoulish.
He’d expected seven more boxes of evidence from the archives, but only six had arrived this week, bringing the total he now had to twelve, all neatly sealed and labeled from 1 OF 13 on up. Number 9 was missing. He’d called daily to remind them that he was still waiting for it, had even gone down to the archives himself to locate the missing carton, but it was nowhere to be found.
The deeper he looked into the evidence, the more people he found who were implicated. The girls who had died that night had many enemies with motive—angry wives, jilted lovers, righteous moralists. It was as frustrating as having no suspects at all. If there was any information to be found about Leah, the one he’d begun calling the fifth petal, it wasn’t in any of the boxes he’d received. The other missing element was the clothes the girls were killed in, the costumes they’d evidently worn to the party that night, the ones Rose had objected to. The police would have kept the clothing as evidence, checking it for bodily fluids, blood, semen, hair. The costumes were undoubtedly in the missing box. Maybe DNA-testing the existing physical evidence would be enough to satisfy the mob. He made another call to the archives.
He truly detested the idea of the Goddesses’ exhumation. If they dug up those poor girls, and there was enough left of them to test, he’d wager Rose’s DNA would be all over them; they’d lived with her, for God’s sake. Which meant things could easily get serious for Rose, especially since so many people wanted her to be guilty. In the best of all possible worlds, they’d find nothing in the remains. He’d looked it up. The rate of corpse decomposition varied greatly, depending on environmental factors, dampness of the soil being the biggest variable. But if the deterioration was minimal, then they could find DNA.
Just yesterday afternoon, he’d had to send two cruisers to Salem Hospital because a gang of middle school kids were shooting a BB gun at what they believed to be Rose’s window. They’d caused an active shooter lockdown that crippled the surgery center for the rest of the day. Add to that the online posters who enjoyed venting anonymous judgment on a woman they’d never met…He had a real problem on his hands, and it was growing.
Through Towner, who was becoming close to Callie, he’d heard that Rose was having good and bad days. She was in and out of lucidity, sometimes making perfect sense, sometimes ranting about the banshee. For the most part, he’d kept his distance from the hospital unless he had official business there. He’d accompanied Barry Marcus to visit Rose soon after she regained consciousness. Unfortunately, she’d been more out than in that day. The minute Barry was introduced as her lawyer, she’d said: “The banshee jumped into me on the night of the Goddess Murders. It’s taken everything I have to keep her from killing again.”
“You need to get out of here,” Barry had said. Then he’d opened the door and held it for Rafferty to exit.
Truth be told, Rafferty was grateful to be dismissed. He’d heard too much about the banshee and Rose. People were already calling him daily and acting as though the banshee were real. If, as Rose Whelan herself insists, it was a banshee that killed the Goddesses, and that banshee jumped into Rose, then Rose is the killer! Such was the logic of public opinion. He’d waited for the attorney outside that day. “Well, there’s little doubt as to what her defense will be,” Barry had said when he finally exited Rose’s room. “If any defense is needed, considering there’s no evidence of a homicide. Can’t you hurry the kid’s toxicology report along?”
They already had the results of the autopsy, but it hadn’t told them much. Billy Barnes had died of a cerebral hemorrhage. It didn’t point to Rose in any way, but it also did nothing to tamp down the crazy rumors about Rose that were circulating. The banshee’s scream made the kid’s head explode! was the first online post Rafferty encountered. The toxicology report would tell more about what had really happened. But it was going to take a while.
Rafferty wasn’t in as much of a hurry for the reports as Barry was. He knew Rose was protected from the rumors and an inflamed public as long as she was in the hospital. She was off the streets, warm and dry, sleeping in a bed and eating regular meals. And it gave him time.
Rafferty leaned back in his chair and contemplated taking another antacid. He was more worried about Callie at thi
s stage. He’d heard some gossip: She was being touted as a healer, the girl who had awakened Rose from her trance. No one was talking about who Callie Cahill really was—yet. As far as he could tell, the only rumors that were circulating at this point were of the miraculous healing performed with a “magic” bowl. But it was only a matter of time until people started to recognize her and remember. He needed to get further into his reinvestigation of the Goddess case before the damned exhumation could go forward. Finding something that was missed the first time was the only way to keep both Rose and Callie out of the public’s crosshairs.
Rafferty was at his desk when the tox report finally came in. He read it through twice, just to make sure he understood the ramifications.
There had been late season thunderstorms all morning, full-on hail that had dented some of the cars at the station and sent the ubiquitous news crews scrambling. It was the first bit of amusement Rafferty had enjoyed since Rose’s hospitalization and the media circus that followed. Though it was still pouring outside, he pulled on his raincoat and headed to the hospital.
“Hey, Chief!” some reporter yelled from across the parking lot. “You gonna give the okay to dig up those Goddesses?”
“No comment.”
Rafferty shook the rain from his coat on the threshold of Rose’s room. He nodded to the guard, wondering again if one of them was the source of the leaks to the press. He’d grilled them both about it, but neither admitted guilt.
Rafferty opened the door. Rose was sitting up in her bed. Callie, Towner, and Zee were sitting with her. He cleared his throat, and all of the women turned to him. “I’ve got news,” he said. “The autopsy is complete. We knew Billy Barnes died of a cerebral hemorrhage, but the toxicology report indicated there were large amounts of both cocaine and heroin in his body.”
“That’s good news!” said Towner.
Rafferty shot his wife a look, and she quickly tried to redeem herself. “Well—not for him. I mean for you, Rose.”
Rose looked confused.
“You didn’t do it, Rose,” Rafferty said. “You are not responsible for the death of Billy Barnes. The mix of drugs likely caused the hemorrhage.”
Rose started to speak. “But I…”
Rafferty held up his hand. “Don’t say a word. There’s no banshee. You didn’t explode his brain by screaming, and please stop suggesting you might have. He died of a drug overdose. This is over now. Just concentrate on getting better.”
He quickly said his good-byes and excused himself, dismissing the guard at the door on his way out. Then he headed back to the station to deal with the fallout. As the door closed, he heard Towner inviting Callie to the upcoming fund-raiser for the Yellow Dog Island Shelter. Good, he thought. Callie can have my ticket.
Unfortunately, there will be one family in Salem who will not be celebrating Thanksgiving. “There is little to be thankful for this year,” Helen Barnes said. “William’s mother is so grief stricken that she has put her house on the market, a house that has been in the Barnes family for almost three hundred years.”
—The Salem Journal
“You sure this is a good idea?” Callie asked. The color on the L’Oréal box was a very light blond. “Is it even going to take?” She gestured to her dark curls.
“Time will tell,” Towner said, putting the shower cap over Callie’s head and removing her gloves. “You probably should have gone to a colorist.”
Callie had to laugh. “Nice time to tell me.” Rafferty had her too worried about being recognized to go to a local salon, so she’d asked Towner to do it.
During the hair dyeing process, Towner had been running back and forth from the tearoom to the coach house. She was a waitress short today: One of her regular girls whose children were in foster care had been in court all day, trying to win them back.
“I’m not a big fan of foster care,” Callie said. She’d already told Towner she’d been fostered more than once, never successfully.
“The first time was the worst. The father sent me back to the group home and left me on the front steps with a note pinned to my chest.”
Towner stared at her. “No way.”
“Cross my heart,” Callie said.
“What did the note say?”
“You don’t want to know what the note said,” Callie said, remembering.
Towner waited.
“It was a biblical quote. Proverbs 5:5. Are you familiar with Proverbs?”
“Not really,” Towner admitted.
“Her feet go down to death; her steps lead straight to the grave.”
“Oh my God,” Towner said. “Please tell me that didn’t happen.”
Callie did her best to shrug it off. “It really did. I honestly think the man didn’t know I could read.
“There were three or four more foster homes after that. Some with a lot of kids, and not much discipline or attention, the parents fostering just for the money they could make from the state. The last one was when I was a teenager. The mother worked two jobs outside the home, but the father paid a lot of attention to me. All the wrong kind.”
“Jesus.”
An hour and a half and two showers later, Callie was down in the tearoom trying to catch a glimpse of the back of her head with the hand mirror Towner was holding out.
The effect was striking, with little contrast between the dye’s pale color and her porcelain skin.
Towner held the hand mirror up for her approval.
Callie looked at it. “I definitely don’t look like myself,” she said. For a moment, she felt a chill. Callie looked like the memory she’d had of Susan, with her white, white hair and pigmentless skin. “Are you sure tonight’s a good idea?” The fund-raiser was just hours away, and she was having second thoughts about going.
“Don’t worry about it,” Towner said. “Most of the patronesses are so old they can’t see five feet in front of them anyway…God, look how great your eyes look.”
Towner held the mirror up again, and Callie looked. Well, at least the eyes were hers and not Susan’s pink ones. They seemed almost black. She looked like the negative of a black-and-white photo from the thirties that Olivia had once clipped from an old magazine.
Ignoring the Closed sign on the door, a woman pushed her way into the tearoom, where Callie and Towner were sharing a late afternoon pot of Difficult-Tea, and dropped the papers she was carrying down in front of Towner.
“Marta, this is Callie,” Towner said. “Marta’s running tonight’s event.”
“Nice to meet you, Callie,” the woman said, looking at her curiously.
Marta was dark eyed, attractive, and stylish, though not exactly pretty in any classic sense. She looked familiar in a New England way, a type Rose might have referred to as “a handsome woman.” Commanding was the word that came to Callie.
“Callie recently moved to Salem.”
“Why would anyone in their right mind want to do that?” Marta smiled at Callie.
Callie hesitated. She knew the question was rhetorical, but it was a question she might be asked again more seriously, and she hadn’t thought far enough ahead to have formulated a response.
“Oh, come on, Marta, you moved back,” Towner teased.
“Only because my mother was dying.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Callie said, remembering the loss of her own mother.
Marta dismissed her concern with a wave of the hand. “It was a long time ago. I’m just saying, why would anyone move to this dismal place if they didn’t have to?”
I did have to, Callie thought but did not say. The way Marta was looking at her was making Callie uncomfortable. Reflexively, she touched her new hair.
Marta gestured to the papers she had placed in front of Towner.
“Will you please sit down and join us?” Towner said. “You’re making me nervous hovering like that.”
“Only for a minute.” Marta laughed, taking a seat at one of the lacy table settings.
Towner held up the tea
pot, but Marta waved it away. “I’ve got to get back to make sure the hotel doesn’t screw up the seating list.”
Towner examined the guest list Marta presented. “Impressive.”
“We’re essentially sold out.”
“As usual, thanks to you,” Towner said, then turned to Callie and explained, “this evening wouldn’t happen without Marta.”
Marta shrugged off the compliment.
“She’s kind enough to chair the event every year. She’s also one of the best fund-raisers around.”
“If I were half as good at making money for myself as I am for charity, I’d become a 501(c)(3), fund my retirement, and go back to where I came from.”
Towner laughed. “I don’t think that’s allowed.”
“More’s the pity,” Marta said.
“Where did you come from?” Callie asked.
“Manhattan.”
“She came back because of her mom, but she stayed because she missed New England so much.” Towner smiled.
Marta groaned, gathering up the papers she’d placed in front of Towner and putting them into her leather shoulder bag. “People like Towner make this place tolerable, at least. I’ll see you tonight. Will you be there, Callie?”
“She’s my plus one,” Towner said.
Marta laughed. “I’ll bet Rafferty’s relieved to be off the hook.”
“You know it.” Towner laughed.
“I’ll see you both tonight.” Marta headed for the door, reaching it just as two older women were trying to come in. “The tearoom’s closed,” she said, pointing to the sign posting the hours. “Come back tomorrow.” She waited while they turned around and slowly descended the stairs. Unable to hide her frustration at their slow movement, Marta couldn’t help rolling her eyes at Towner.
“She’s interesting,” Callie said.
The Fifth Petal Page 11