“But you’d never been there. Before the party.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t even remember seeing Norman’s Woe the night of the party. All I remember is the castle.”
Rafferty called Ann back in. “Ever heard of a girl named Leah Kormos?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“She was evidently one of the Goddesses.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“But you obviously know who this is,” Rafferty said, gesturing to Callie.
“Callie O’Neill,” Ann said.
“Ann, come on…” Rafferty said.
Ann said nothing.
“Tell me again why you sent Callie to Norman’s Woe. You sure it was the rock and not the castle that you meant her to see?”
“I’m not sure at all. There might not be any significance beyond the general location,” Ann offered. “It’s possible for my visions to incorporate images from two different time periods,” she went on, as if she knew exactly what Rafferty was talking about. “It happens. We all know time isn’t linear.”
“We don’t all know that,” Rafferty said. “Not all of us believe in magic.”
“Nonlinear time isn’t magic. It’s physics. Quantum mechanics. It’s Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle writ large. Each observer has his own frame of reference for time. It’s also math if you want to get technical about it.”
Ann had adopted what she called a “philosophical perception of time.” Something about the spontaneous absorption of light that Rafferty didn’t understand at all.
He turned back to Callie. “What else did you see? Before you had the dream memory.”
“Nothing,” Callie said.
“What did you and Paul talk about?”
“Just the rock itself.”
He waited.
“It has a submerged reef.”
Rafferty nodded.
“Paul said a lot of ships have run aground on those rocks.”
“That’s common knowledge,” Ann offered.
“What else?”
Callie thought about it, remembering. “Paul said there were a number of suicides there, too. That Marta Hathorne’s father was one of them.”
“He worked for the Whitings back in the day,” Rafferty said. “I heard he was blamed for a bad business deal that cost the Whitings their fortune. That that’s why he killed himself.” General opinion had been that Hathorne had been a scapegoat. Everyone knew it had been that way for generations, going all the way back to the witch trials, the Hathornes and the Whitings blaming each other for anything that went wrong in their lives. “Let’s get back to the party. You said it was a masked ball?”
“Yes. A fairy-tale ball.”
“So there was an orchestra?”
She didn’t remember any music. Just the dissonant chords from the organ. “I don’t know. Maybe there was.”
“Was there anyone else you recognized? Besides your mother and her friends?” he asked. “What about the man on the bed? Did he have a name?”
He caught her hesitation.
She took a breath. “I think they were calling him Dad.”
“Dad?” Rafferty repeated, just to make sure he’d gotten it right.
Callie nodded. “I think so.”
“That’s really creepy,” Ann said.
“Tell me again. Everything you saw at the party.”
She repeated what she’d told him: the masked costume ball; the Wicked Queen, who’d given her a whiff of a green drink that smelled like licorice; how mad Olivia had been at the woman. She told him how Leah had come in, angry and ranting, how Callie had followed her upstairs to the bedroom. “She was screaming at them, saying they betrayed her.”
“With the man on the bed,” Rafferty said.
“Yes.”
“Someone they were sexually involved with.”
“Yes.” Callie was struggling with the image. “I remember it now. I remember when it happened. I went up the stairs, and I heard them yelling at each other.”
“Sounds like this Leah character should be your main suspect,” Ann said to Rafferty.
“I didn’t know what they were doing with him or why the man was naked.”
“You never saw them doing that kind of thing before?” Rafferty said.
“Then you’d be one of the only ones in town who didn’t,” Ann said.
Rafferty shot her a look.
Ann shrugged. “It was common knowledge,” she said again.
“She was five,” Rafferty retorted. “Your mother and the others…” Rafferty said, as gently as he could, not knowing how much she’d heard of the rumors. “The Goddesses had a reputation for being”—he searched for a word—“seductive.”
“Very seductive,” Ann added. “They made a sport of it. Sometimes a competitive sport.”
“I’ve heard some of this. But a competition…” Callie stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
Rafferty nodded. “That’s the way people remember it.”
Callie looked to Ann for verification.
“Hey, no judgment here. I thought they were cool.” Ann smiled sweetly.
Callie wanted to smack her.
Rafferty’s phone rang. “Let’s take a five-minute break,” he said, walking outside.
Callie looked around Ann’s office and at the shop behind: Labeled spells in little envelopes lined the walls, one for lost love, another for wealth, one that treated male impotency. Beyond the packaged spells were canisters of dried herbs, with labels that sounded witchy: wolfbane, eye of newt. Potions obviously designed to relieve the tourists of their dollars, Callie thought. Crystal wands were in a display case and handcrafted witch’s brooms hung from the ceiling. And then there was the lace, all kinds of lace: dream catchers, doilies, random pieces of half-finished work. Callie watched a young woman seated in the hallway dressed in black holding a piece of lace up in front of a customer, gazing into it the way she’d seen wizards in old movies gaze into crystal balls. The girl looked as if she could read the lace. Callie squinted at it, trying to see what the girl was looking at.
When they reconvened, Callie told Rafferty about the portrait painted on the wall, the one Rose hated. How Callie had been to the house to see if it was still there, but it had been painted over.
She told him again about the argument at the party that night, how Leah had come in looking for the others and had followed them upstairs and argued with them, how, in Callie’s vision, there was blood running down the walls.
Then she remembered something else about the dream. She turned to Ann. “Do you think they were witches?”
“Who?” Ann asked.
“The Goddesses,” Callie said.
“Why would you ask that?” Ann asked.
“One of them was trying to do something in my dream. Drawing a circle on the floor of the bedroom,” Callie answered. “She said something about binding.”
“A binding spell?” Ann asked.
“Like you did on me,” Callie said.
Ann considered.
“It was for protection, though,” Callie said.
Ann shrugged. “Binding spells are usually for protection.”
“Were they witches, do you think?” Callie asked again.
“Were they?” Rafferty asked Ann.
She shrugged again. “I’ve heard they thought their Salem ancestors were ‘real’ witches. Not just victims of hysteria, but practicing witches. Which was a dangerous and, frankly, silly thing to believe. There were rumors that one of them was a frequent visitor to the Left Hand Path.”
Rafferty knew that the Left Hand Path was a shop the city had been trying to shut down at the time. The owner had been a vocal practitioner of black magic, the kind of stuff Hollywood loves. But the other witches in town had lobbied to get the place closed down after it was rumored that the owner had been sacrificing animals and using their body parts in her rituals. Witches had been relatively new to Salem when Rafferty first arrived, and if they w
ere going to make a permanent home and be welcomed by the community, they felt it was important to keep their reputation clean. Even Ann, with her practice of grey magic, had toned things down in an effort to be embraced by Salem. She’d even started a foundation: an antidefamation league that helped educate the public about the witches’ harmless religious practices.
“I never knew if the rumors were true.” Ann shook her head. “Everyone was doing a little magic back then, reading the tarot or using a love potion. But even if they were doing an occasional spell, the Goddesses weren’t real witches by anyone’s standards.”
“Why not?” Rafferty asked.
“Well, they obviously weren’t solitaries, and they weren’t in any coven. And they weren’t very good at it, were they?” She turned to Callie. “That spell, if it even was a spell, didn’t protect anyone, did it?”
Callie bristled. The remark was true, but coldhearted.
Rafferty said, “I read the files. There was another argument that night, a bad one between Rose and the girls. Rose followed them to their car; there was a lot of yelling in the street. A neighbor called the police. Callie, do you remember why they were fighting?”
“I think so. It came back to me at Rose’s house. She had learned something really bad about them. They were mad at someone for telling her. In the car, they talked about getting revenge. Whatever it was Rose had been told, it caused the worst argument I can remember. But I told you, the neighbors were always calling the police,” Callie continued. “The police were always coming to the house for one thing or another.” She thought for a minute. “They searched that house, right?”
“After the murders? Of course,” Rafferty said, watching Callie carefully. He had seen the report: they hadn’t found anything worth noting. But with one box of evidence still missing, he really couldn’t be certain. He didn’t elaborate; it wasn’t something she needed to know right now. His cop’s instincts were telling him there was something she wasn’t saying, something she was holding back.
“What about the blood? You said there was blood running down the walls,” Rafferty said.
“That was part of the dream,” Callie answered. “Not a real image.”
“Do you think it was the blood from later that night? There was a lot of blood spilled on Proctor’s Ledge.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It might have been. But I think I may have conjured it…from something Rose said to me yesterday.”
“What was that?”
Callie hesitated. She didn’t want to make more trouble for Rose.
“Tell me.”
“When she was upset yesterday, Rose shouted, ‘God will give you blood to drink,’ ” Callie admitted, waiting for Rafferty’s reaction. “Zee said Rose heard someone say it on the hill the night of the murders.”
Rafferty bristled. He’d never heard this bit of information. Doctor-patient confidentiality would forbid Zee from sharing it with him, but confidentiality could be ignored in the face of imminent danger. Of course this wasn’t exactly imminent. The danger had passed twenty-five years ago.
“Did you hear the statement the night of the murders?”
“I don’t think so,” Callie said nervously. “I know I’ve heard it before, but I don’t think it was that night. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out what it means.”
“I know what it means,” Ann said.
“You do?” Rafferty turned to her.
“You could have heard or read it anywhere; it’s very famous. It’s a quote from Sarah Good, one of the accused witches. She said it when she knew she was going to hang. There’s more to her speech than that, though that’s the part most often quoted. You can look it up.”
“Did Rose say who uttered the quote that night?” Rafferty asked.
Callie hesitated. She didn’t want to answer in front of Ann. But Rafferty was waiting. And this was important. “Rose says it was the banshee.”
Rafferty had offered to give Callie a ride back to the house. They sat in silence as the cruiser pulled out.
“So much for keeping my identity a secret,” Callie said. “Ann obviously knows who I am now.”
“I’d say she’s known for a while,” Rafferty said. “You have to admit, she was pretty helpful with her insights.”
Callie wasn’t so sure.
“I know going to Hammond Castle was difficult for you, but it might have triggered a memory that could be very helpful in discovering who killed your mother and the others. Is there anything else you remember?”
Callie replayed the vision and lingered on it for a long moment before speaking again. “They were arguing about Leah Kormos at the party before she got there: my mother and Susan and Cheryl. My mother said it was against the rules to go to the man upstairs without Leah; that it had to be all of them together. Cheryl said the rules had already been broken, that Leah was the one who had broken them.”
“Rules? What do you mean? They had rules?” Rafferty asked.
“Evidently.”
She was silent for a long time. “I think Ann might be right. I think Leah Kormos might be the killer.”
They didn’t speak again on the ride back to the house. Callie looked out the window, thinking about the eyes that had stared back at her from the bed. She shivered.
Rafferty pulled the cruiser in next to her car and shut off the engine. He turned to her.
“So what else aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” she lied.
“Callie,” he said, holding her gaze. “I’ve been a cop for a long time.”
She sighed.
“Every memory you have gets us one step closer to finding your mother’s killer.”
“This wasn’t a memory. It was a dream.” Callie shook her head. “I have no illusion it was real. It’s just not important.”
“Why don’t you let me decide what’s important?”
“It was a weird party.”
He waited. When she didn’t reply, he prompted her. “What about the guy on the bed? This…Dad.”
She shivered.
“Tell me about him again.”
A blush was creeping into Callie’s cheeks.
“What didn’t you want to say in front of Ann?”
“Look, I already told you I don’t know if any of this is real—if there was even a man—or a room—that night! And the man I saw on the bed…it isn’t possible he was in the room.”
“Why not?”
Callie took a breath before continuing. “Because the man I saw on the bed was Paul Whiting.”
Rafferty said nothing as she got out of the cruiser and unlocked her car door. Finally, he leaned out his window. “That’s the reason you were so angry with Paul when he dropped you off earlier?”
Callie nodded, feeling the color burning in her cheeks.
“You realize he wasn’t even born until later that year.”
“Yes.”
“I think you owe that young man an explanation. And probably an apology.”
She had to knock on the boathouse door several times before he opened it.
“What the hell?” He looked annoyed. Then, seeing who it was, he stopped, staring at her.
“I lied to you,” she said.
“What?”
“I lied to you about who I am.”
Callie guessed that there was only a small window of opportunity before Ann told him the story, if she hadn’t already. But that wasn’t why she was telling him. Callie really wanted it to come from her. After she told him, there was something equally important she had to do. But first things first.
“My name isn’t Callie O’Neill, it’s Callie Cahill.” She looked at him for signs of recognition. He stared at her blankly. “I was the little girl who survived the Goddess Murders.”
He stood framed by the doorway, looking at her as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was hearing. Finally, he stepped back and opened the door to let her in.
Two hours later, on her way back to Salem, sh
e stopped at CVS and bought herself a flashlight.
I am no more a witch than you are a wizard, and if you take away my life, God will give you blood to drink.
—SARAH GOOD, 1692
Rafferty sat in his office staring at Sarah Good’s words. Ann was right, it was a famous quote, and often taken out of context, which made Good’s curse seem more threatening. In some ways, her accusation was typical of the hysteria; she was outspoken and definitely an outsider. She was also in debt from a first marriage, something her second husband (also her accuser) inherited. But what struck Rafferty most about Sarah was the fact that her young daughter, Dorcas Good, was also accused. Four years old at the time she was arrested, the child sat abandoned and neglected in Salem Jail for several months, long after the execution of her mother. After she was finally released, she was never the same, and had to be cared for all of her life.
In different ways, the story of Sarah Good and her daughter reminded him of the Goddesses. He thought of Olivia and Callie, of course. The wronged mother, the daughter who suffered after her loss. He also thought of Rose. Dorcas Good, whose real name was Dorothy, was mentally ill like Rose, an affliction blamed on her lengthy incarceration under horrendous conditions. When she was finally released, she was broken, in much the same manner that Rose had been broken. Neither was ever the same again.
Rafferty noted the similarities. But he found no real connection, other than the obvious one: the date of Sarah Good’s execution, July 19.
Though the records kept of the Goddess Murders were sketchy at best, he did know that the women had been on Proctor’s Ledge that Halloween intending to honor their ancestors: five of Salem’s accused who had been hanged together on July 19. Callie had confirmed that story. He knew that each of the Goddesses had been related to one of the five. If each represented one petal of the rose, then one of them had to be related to Sarah Good.
“God will give you blood to drink.” Sarah Good’s curse was evidently a catchphrase of Rose’s, something she’d been saying since she got out of the state hospital. Did she really hear it spoken that night, or was that, along with her insistence that a banshee had done the killing, another of Rose’s delusions?
The Fifth Petal Page 21