Emily and Callie marveled at the work he had done.
Callie had treated Emily upstairs twice. Today would be the third time, and already she could see signs of improvement. Emily’s color was better, and she had more energy. “You’re doing well with this, I think,” she said.
Emily agreed.
When it was clear Paul’s mother wasn’t going to describe the change, Callie made her way around the room, adjusting the bowls and then testing the four tiny speakers Paul had placed strategically in the rock crevices. She smiled to herself; he was amazingly thorough.
“Ready to get started?”
Emily nodded, relaxing back into the cushions of the couch.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you how Rose is doing. I heard she’s had a bit of a setback.”
“She’s better, I think. Thanks for asking.” Callie didn’t elaborate. She didn’t want to stress Emily with her worries about Rose’s impending release. When she’d visited the hospital yesterday, after hearing about the exhumation, she’d had to enter through Ambulatory Care to avoid the growing group of protesters at the main entrance, who’d also discovered her preferred route inside. These hysterics were carrying signs that said KILL THE BANSHEE or DRIVE THE DEVIL FROM THE WITCH CITY.
“Before we start today, tell me about your experience with chemo,” Callie said.
“I stopped it.”
“I understand,” Callie said. “Do you remember what they were giving you?”
Emily easily recited the names of four different drugs. “The last two were trials my doctor got me into.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I felt like I was being poisoned,” Emily said.
“You were,” Callie said. “In a sense. Or at least the cancer was.”
Emily nodded.
“In a way, chemo isn’t that much different from sound. The right amount of chemo can heal you, but too much can harm you. Sound waves can be like that, too.”
Emily grew thoughtful. “I seem to remember hearing something about the government testing some sound-wave weapon in the desert that was strong enough to cause earthquakes.”
That wouldn’t have surprised Callie a bit. From what she’d seen of sound healing, she had come to believe almost any effect was possible. Even infrasound, though largely undetectable to the human ear, had been proven to have odd effects on perception and behavior.
“So you decided on your own to stop the drug test?”
“They took me off the last round. Liver damage. But I’d already decided I’d had enough. Much to the disapproval of my family.”
Callie didn’t express an opinion. Though she could tell that Emily was looking for approval, she’d learned not to comment on something so personal. The truth was, she did approve. The damage she saw on Emily right now seemed more an effect of chemo than one of cancer. But it was difficult to tell how much the chemo had helped before it had taken its toll.
Callie circled the rims of the bowls with a rubber wand, the vibrations building as they began to sing, softly at first, then louder, until they were singing in harmony. As more of the bowls joined in the song, the ellipses the vibrations created overlapped, crisscrossing as they passed over and through every surface they touched, vibrating and opening Emily’s chakras, unblocking the energy trapped in her muscles, letting her chi flow freely. Callie joined the harmony, intoning the notes that were the universal vibrations of joy and gratitude, directing them with intention toward the unhealthy cells in Emily’s liver, in an effort to resonate those cells back to health and harmony. The volume increased until it filled every space in the room.
Though the session went well, and Callie could see signs of improvement, she felt distracted. Against both Rose’s and Rafferty’s advice, she had called the reporter and consented to the interview. She had to do something, she told herself, and Rafferty hadn’t said it wouldn’t work; he’d said it might not. And to just sit and wait for the harassment to start when Rose was released seemed more like courting the strike than the interview did. Maybe by telling her story, she could change things.
For the sake of privacy, she’d agreed to meet The Salem Journal reporter in Beverly. When she finally found a parking space and walked into the Atomic Cafe, he was already sitting in a booth, his micro–tape recorder beside him.
“Coffee?” the reporter offered. “I’m buying.”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” she said, sitting down and picking up the napkin from the place setting in front of her.
It seemed longer than a month since she’d told Rafferty the story of how Rose had saved her life, how she had gone back to save the others. It was more difficult to tell it today, the feelings all coming back to her at once—including the sick feeling the details created in the pit of her stomach. She was aware that the reporter noticed she’d been shredding the paper napkin as she was speaking. Now she crumpled it and placed it on the table.
“You claim the first victim fell when you were all gathered together,” the reporter said. “Is that right?”
“Yes. As I told you, I thought Susan had fainted. Rose was about five feet in front of us, reading the blessing. So she didn’t have anything to do with the murders—”
“At the very least, not the murder of Susan Symms.”
“Look, Rose saved my life,” Callie said. “This is why I agreed to speak with you. I want people to know that she made sure I was safe; that she hid me and then went back to help. She was a hero, not—”
“Stories develop into legends over time, don’t they?” the reporter cut in.
“Exactly!” Callie said, relieved that he understood. “I visited Rose’s old house and a neighbor spoke with me. She had no idea who I was. She had heard that Rose murdered the Goddesses and then killed me, too. It’s amazing how the story has morphed and rumors have become fact. People in Salem need to learn the truth. I was there. What people have come to believe happened that night is total nonsense.”
“Do you think fear plays a part in the public’s continuing interest in this story?”
“In what way?”
“Well, here’s a homeless mental patient who claimed that a banshee killed three vibrant young women. Now she claims that she, herself, is a banshee. In between, she’s been predicting the deaths of everyone she meets. You can see why people might be a little afraid of her.”
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you who you think you are. Tell me what you fear, and I’ll tell you who you really are.”
The reporter stared.
“Rose used to say that,” Callie said. “I think people are always frightened by the things they don’t understand.”
“You think Rose is misunderstood, Ms. Cahill?”
“I don’t think she’s understood at all,” Callie said.
“Do you understand her?”
“I believe I do. I understand her better than most people. I know for sure she’s not capable of what they’re accusing her of.”
“Does Rose suffer from schizophrenia? She hears voices; she talks to trees. Those are classic symptoms, aren’t they?”
Callie bristled. “I’m not qualified to comment on Rose’s mental health.”
“But clearly she does suffer from mental illness. She’s been in and out of state hospitals, and she’s now in the psychiatric ward at Salem.”
“I’m not qualified to make a diagnosis. And neither are you.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “But would you agree that Rose was severely traumatized by the events of Halloween night 1989?”
“Who wouldn’t be? Rose was our surrogate mother. And then, in one night, she lost everyone. So, yes, I imagine she was traumatized. Wouldn’t you be?”
“Were you?”
“Yes,” Callie shot back. “But we’re not talking about me.”
“There’s a great deal of interest in you,” the reporter said. “And in the Goddesses themselves. Especially now that they are exhuming the bodies. That’s a big story. Would you care to co
mment on the exhumation? What do you think they’re going to find?”
“I hope they find evidence that will lead to the arrest of the person who murdered my mother and two of her friends,” she said. Without the napkin to shred, she had no idea what to do with her hands and saw him glancing at them. She placed them in her lap.
“Who do you think had motive?”
“I’m not the person to ask. I was five at the time.”
“I hear they had a number of enemies.”
She stared at him. “I don’t know. Like I said, I was just a child.”
“Well, they obviously had one,” he said. “You have no idea who that might be?”
“They should look at Leah Kormos,” Callie said. “She was one of the Goddesses, and she disappeared right after the murders. She’s the main suspect, not Rose.”
“Was this Leah as promiscuous as the rest of them?”
“Excuse me?”
“They had sex with a lot of men. Some say they considered seduction a competitive sport.”
So the reporter had talked to Ann. Callie’s dislike of the woman seemed to grow by the day.
“And I’ve heard their behavior was blamed for the AIDS epidemic that hit the North Shore back in ’eighty-nine.”
“You’re telling me that my mother and the other Goddesses had AIDS?” Callie said, incredulous.
“I’m not saying I believe it.” He shrugged. “But it’s what people are saying.”
A month ago, she would have hurled all the curses and profanities that came to mind. But anything said in anger could be used to question her credibility, and would make Rose, by extension, look even worse.
Instead, Callie stood and walked out of the restaurant.
That night, Callie’s dreams were vivid and disturbing, and then a long forgotten memory was unleashed:
They were all on the floor in the back bedroom; the beautiful mural of the Goddesses decorated the wall.
“How dare she tell?” Susan demanded. “Rose is going to throw us out, that’s what she said!”
Olivia sat on a huge velvet pillow. A half-eaten bag of potato chips was propped up next to her, and the last homemade chocolate chip cookie sat on a plate. She passed a spoon and a pint of Häagen-Dazs rum raisin back to Susan. “She won’t.”
An exotic silk print draped over the ceiling light, forming walls like a tent. The room smelled of patchouli and herbal incense. Except for the junk food, the place could have been a harem room. Like in the stories from The Thousand and One Nights Rose was reading to her.
“You weren’t there. She meant it this time,” Susan said.
Olivia looked regretfully around the room. “We’ll find another place to meet them.”
“No more underage boys,” Susan warned. “News of that has been getting around.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “But that was so much fun.”
“It’s probably what set her off and made her decide to tell Rose,” Susan concluded.
“Anything sets her off lately. Can’t we banish her? Fly her out of town on her broom?” Susan plucked a crystal wand off the dresser and waved it around. “Begone!”
“She’s a petal on the rose,” Olivia said sarcastically. “We need her for the blessing.”
“We don’t need her. Should we start packing?” Susan asked.
“Rose doesn’t mean it,” Olivia insisted. “She’d never make Callie homeless.”
Cheryl sauntered in with a letter. She motioned Callie to the front of the room. “Time for recitation,” she said, exchanging a look with the others. “My sneakiness has paid off. I stole it from her handbag when we were at the center,” she bragged.
Olivia’s eyes went wide.
“Okay, let’s hear it, Callie,” Susan said, clapping in delight.
“I’ll hold the letter,” Cheryl said. The envelope read: To Dagda from Morrigan. “You simply must do the hands for this one.”
Callie was delighted to be the center of attention. She put one hand over the other, and the Goddesses snickered in anticipation.
Cheryl shushed them. “Go ahead,” she said to Callie. “Read.”
Callie tucked a dark curl behind her ear and cleared her throat as Rose had taught her to do to quiet the room.
“My Love,
Meet me tomorrow night in our secret place, and I will show you an ecstasy you have never known. Our bodies will be as the god and goddess. I will touch you as the Morrigan touches Dagda, our heavenly tryst unleashing all the powers of the universe, such orgasmic pleasure as only a god and goddess may know. We have waited long enough, my love…”
Callie tripped over some of the words, pronouncing them carefully, syllable by syllable: “Dag-da, or-gas-mic. Mor-ri-gan.” The Goddesses’ laughter never materialized.
“I told you she was a hypocrite!” Cheryl hissed.
Susan was outraged. “She tells Rose we are immoral and indecent, and that she should kick us out of her house, and she’s doing the same damned thing?”
But Olivia was laughing. “I can see the old witch humping and panting,” she said. “Oh, Dag!” She made a twisted expression. “Don’t stop, Dag!” She pumped her pelvis into the air. “I can show you the pleasures of the universe, Dag!”
Susan covered her eyes and said, “I won’t be able to unsee that!”
“She calls herself a goddess?” Cheryl snorted. “We’re the Goddesses.”
Olivia turned to Cheryl. “Let me see that letter.” She took it and read silently. Slowly. Finally she looked up, grinning widely. “I know what we can do.”
“What?” Susan said.
“You want revenge?” Olivia asked.
“Yes!” Cheryl shouted.
“Do you know his address?” she asked Cheryl.
“Please. I even know their secret trysting place.”
“Mail it.”
“What for?”
“You want to get her back, right?” Olivia asked.
“Absolutely,” Susan said.
“Then we have to take him,” Olivia said.
“Oh my God,” Susan whispered, understanding. “Yes!”
“We’ll do it,” Cheryl agreed. “To show her who’s boss. To show her not to mess with us.”
“And to show him the true power of the Goddesses. Now there’s an orgasmic pleasure he’s never known!”
“Yes!” Susan echoed.
Olivia held the envelope to her lips and imprinted a scarlet kiss.
“I can’t mail a letter addressed to Dagda from Morrigan. With lipstick all over it,” Cheryl said.
Olivia sighed and removed the letter from the envelope, which fluttered to the floor. Then she walked to Rose’s desk in the hall, returning with another envelope and a pen. She handed them to Cheryl.
“All right!” Cheryl said. “Let’s do this!”
It was fear that diminished the goddess, turning her from maiden to banshee.
—ROSE’S Book of Trees
“The man on the bed? I think they were calling him Dag, not Dad,” Callie said.
The cell connection was fuzzy. Rafferty repeated the name. “Dag?”
“Right,” she said.
“Short for Dagda, I’m guessing.”
“That’s what I think. I had another dream memory last night. I e-mailed you the contents of the letter that was once in the envelope we found. The envelope under the floorboards,” she clarified. “I remember now. They had me recite the whole thing to them.”
Callie waited on the phone while Rafferty pulled up the e-mail. He didn’t comment as he was reading. “That’s quite a missive,” he finally said.
“That’s why I e-mailed it.”
“Is this something that really happened?”
“God, I hope so…I’d hate to think my subconscious could come up with something so cheesy.”
He laughed.
“It might not be true,” she said. “But it feels like an accurate memory.”
“You’ve been pretty accurate so far,” h
e said.
Rafferty had stayed home the previous morning, using the Internet to locate every Kormos he could find in the state of New Hampshire, Becky’s last known place of residence. He checked not just the southern towns but all the way to the Canadian border. He tried Manchester first, then Portsmouth. Then he started on the smaller towns. After he ended his call with Callie, he was ready to punch in the next number on his list when he heard Towner slam down the house phone. “You finally picked up, huh?” Rafferty asked her. “Did you tell her we’re spending Christmas with my daughter?” May had left three messages before Towner had finally answered.
“As we do every year,” she replied.
“And yet she persists,” Rafferty said to himself. May was adamant that they come out to the island for all the holidays, no matter what plans they had, and Towner was stubborn. He wasn’t certain whom he’d give odds to in this battle.
At noon he had to give up on the hunt and headed into the station. A call had come from Yellow Dog Island to his private office line. He wanted to ignore it, but when May had problems she usually called him, not 911. Especially when she was moving women. Rafferty was the only one she trusted to respect their confidentiality.
“What’s going on out there?” he asked when May picked up.
“I’ve got some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” she said.
He picked up his gun. Then his jacket. Going to Yellow Dog today was the last thing he wanted to do.
It was cold on the water; the grey ocean matched the color of the clouds. There was a whole lot more chop than he’d expected, which made it difficult to tie up. May was waiting at the top of the dock, hydraulically lowering the ramp, the float swaying crazily below it until it finally landed and Rafferty was able to secure it to the cleats. He walked up to join May. At least she wasn’t holding the rifle, he thought. Things couldn’t be that bad.
The Fifth Petal Page 27