by V. V. James
“Go make sure Harper doesn’t disappear,” I tell Chester, nudging him. “I knew their conversation about retracting the rape allegations was going to be tough. I’ll tell Sarah to keep calm. We’ve got this.”
As Ches trots off across the sand, my phone rings. Remy’s number.
“Hey, we’re nearly done here, Boss. We have the Fenns together, and we’ll be leaving shortly.”
As Remy replies, everything falls apart.
“Nearly done? Too fucking right you’re nearly done. I’ve just had a call from some white-coat douchebag at CDC. Not good news for you, Margaret Knight. Sanctuary’s been quarantined.”
“What?”
“Quar-an-tined. Comes from the Italian, meaning forty days, which is how long they used to isolate ships in port to make sure no bastard had the Black Death. Or in the case of Sanctuary, Killer Witch Flu.”
“That’s not funny, Remy.”
“Too fucking right it isn’t, Maggie. Jacob Bolt, the chief’s son who you told me last night had nothing more serious than brokenheartitis? He’s dead. Died early this morning. And right after, those Yale pointy-headers rushed half a dozen others into the emergency isolation unit—schoolkids and cops. Witchcraft is beating bird flu and closing in on fucking Ebola.”
I sink to my haunches in the sand, phone pressed to my ear, trying to talk down this madness.
“It’s hysteria, Remy. If it’s witchcraft that’s striking people down, then why is Abigail Whitman still walking and talking? And her husband is the one taking folks off to the hospital. I’d say that’s a bit of a coincidence.”
“You’re saying the Bolt kid died of hysteria?”
“Of course I’m not. But you know, people do die suddenly for perfectly straightforward reasons.”
“Not when they’re prime accusers in murder cases they don’t. Look, the kid could have choked to death on Tootsie Rolls for all I care. But this has escalated to a Grade-A-for-Assfuckery incident, and we can’t just walk it back like we discussed last night. My next call is going to have to be the governor, to tell her that I’ve relieved you of your badge and am sending in my best people to sort this out. And you can’t take those witch women anywhere.”
“No, Remy, I—”
“We’ll bring them into state custody. I’ll make sure they’re safe. But we’ve got to be seen to do this right. This is going to bring the national media to our doorstep. The whole fucking three-ring circus plus popcorn.” He pauses. Sniffs. “At least it gets me out of being my daughter’s ballet chauffeur for a couple weeks, so there’s that. Sorry it had to end like this, Mags. Wait at Green Point till the guys turn up, then get your ass back to HQ.”
He cuts the call. My wrist goes slack, and I stare at the sand. This can’t be happening.
Jacob Bolt, dead?
And I’m definitely not handing over the Fenns.
I go to Sarah. She’s standing on the waterline looking bewildered and shell-shocked. She and Harper must have had harsh words. She doesn’t even respond at first. Not until I shake her arm does she look up. Her eyes are haunted. Did she overhear my conversation with Remy?
“Come on,” I say, shaking her again, gently. “Time to get you both out of here.”
“I don’t…” Fenn says. She seems confused. “I…”
There’s a yell from over by the boathouse. Shouting. Which is when I notice a patrol car parked by the café.
Not one car. Three. And one of them has the word CHIEF on the side.
Officer Asshole has Harper Fenn by the hair. She’s changed into a flowing dress and stumbles over the hem as he twists her neck painfully.
In his other hand, he holds a gun at her head.
What the fuck is this?
Someone is striding toward us across the sand. The light glints off his badge.
When Chief Tad Bolt reaches us, he punches Sarah Fenn in the face. The witch goes down without a sound beyond the audible crack of an eye socket.
I snarl and position myself between him and her slumped body.
“That’s two counts of assault, Bolt. One from you, and one from your boy over there. He needs to let go of Harper right away.”
Bolt smiles, and it’s so damn wrong I have no words. His face has fallen in on itself, like an apple gone bad on the inside. His skin is a slaughterhouse pink, and each blunt bristle on his chin looks stabbed painfully into its follicle. His eyes are more red than blue.
I hear the click as he raises his gun and holds it two inches from my forehead. And I am honestly ready to shit my pants, because I’ve realized too late that this man knows no rules or laws anymore except those of wild grief.
“You shut your face, you dumb bitch. If you’d arrested these witches weeks ago, my boy would still be alive.”
Then he twirls the pistol. It’s a curiously graceful motion, and the arc of his hand continues until the gun butt slams into the side of my skull and I crumple.
Ninety-Eight
LIVE BROADCAST, NPR, MORNING EDITION
EVANS: It’s eight thirty, and you’re listening to NPR’s Morning Edition. Now, breaking news just in from Connecticut of a town that has been placed under quarantine by the CDC—that is the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the nation’s health protection agency. Over to our health correspondent, Stephanie Geller, for more details.
GELLER: Thank you, Bill. Yes, this is very curious news coming out of Connecticut. Sanctuary is a small town, population 9,000 or so. And it’s been making headlines locally during the past couple of weeks for a string of accusations about witchcraft, including the alleged murder of a young star athlete. Connecticut news yesterday carried a story on the discovery of a so-called ritual site, and in the town there has been widespread speculation about what its purpose may be.
Now there has been a confirmed death overnight, that of a young man named Jacob Bolt, who was admitted to a rare and infectious diseases unit on the Yale campus several days ago. Bolt, the youngest son of Sanctuary’s chief, Thaddeus Bolt, was the primary witness and accuser in the murder allegations, pointing the finger at the daughter of the local witch.
Beside Bolt, a number of others involved in the case have reportedly become ill. By imposing a quarantine, is the CDC really saying that Sanctuary is seeing America’s first witchcraft-caused epidemic for, well, centuries? Luc Porowski, a CDC spokesperson, says not.
POROWSKI: We are absolutely not speculating as to the origin of the symptoms manifesting in Sanctuary. The purview of the CDC is clear. Our Division of Global Migration and Quarantine is empowered to detain and medically examine individuals suspected of carrying a communicable disease.
One of our eighteen quarantine stations is in Boston. The Boston team was contacted yesterday by the medical faculty at Yale, who shared their concerns, and our station chief visited the hospital to assess the individuals admitted. Their decision to impose a temporary quarantine on the town of Sanctuary pending further investigation was not undertaken lightly, and we look forward to lifting the restrictions once we are able to determine that there is no risk to the public.
GELLER: What about those who say that the only thing wrong with these people is hysteria caused by rumors of witchcraft? By intervening like this, couldn’t you be making things worse?
POROWSKI: One young man has tragically died, although the cause of death is as yet unconfirmed. Our priority at this time is to prevent further loss of life.
GELLER: The Moot—that is the national body representing witches and the magically able—has issued the following statement: “We are surprised and disappointed that the CDC has chosen to stoke prejudice by this ill-informed decision. There has been not one scientifically verified incident of witchcraft-induced mass sickness in the entire history of the United States. We strongly urge people to use their common sense regarding reports of this quarantine in Sanctuary.” That’s all
for now, but we’ll keep you updated. We understand that at this time, roadblocks are being put in place, and movement into and out of the town is restricted.
EVANS: Thank you so much, Stephanie. That was health correspondent Stephanie Geller.
Ninety-Nine
TWEETS FROM @POTUS—OFFICIAL TWITTER OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
@POTUS 8:45 a.m.
Witches killing people in Connecticut is result of Democrat craze for “tolerance” and “integration.” Witchcraft = unnatural and UNAMERICAN. CDC right to set #quarantine
8.4K 7.9K 37K
@POTUS 9:02 a.m.
No new regulation of witches EVER introduced by liberal Supreme Court. We will end this NOW. I am ordering immediate inquiry into #Sanctuary #witchcraft #quarantine
9.1K 10K 42K
One Hundred
Abigail
“Got ’em,” Tad announces. Police and guardsmen flatten themselves against the wall to make room as the chief strides into his office where we’re gathered. “They’re in the cells.”
When Michael and I told him about Jake’s passing this morning, I saw that this was the moment from which there was no going back. Tad Bolt’s despair could turn inward, as grief, or outward, as rage.
I needed him to rage.
“Arrest the Fenns,” I told him. “They’ve killed both our children. They have to pay.”
Michael emphasized that the whole town was at risk from the witches, and told Tad he’d ordered ambulances to take the three cops and the Spartan boys to the hospital. When he suggested a quarantine, I knew it would be perfect. We could put a lid on Sanctuary and bring it to a boil.
Michael’s creepy golfing buddy, who runs the CDC Region 1 office in Boston and tells dinner-party stories of inspecting prostitutes for rare sexual diseases, delivered on that. Which meant Tad could call the detective’s boss in Middletown to get her off the case, and probe for the whereabouts of the Fenns—which turned out to be Green Point.
NPR picked up on the quarantine, so we’re national news. And once the president tweeted? Well, that’s practically an executive order.
Now the witches are in our custody—and I’m in control. Tad’s in no state to think. His grief whips him on to do, do, do. Michael’s played his part. Now the finale is in my hands.
One last act of justice.
I had Tad call in the National Guard, and they’re prepping the football stadium.
“Mitch McConaughey’s guys are assembling the stage and a podium for the accused,” says one police officer, a handsome young man with dazzling badges. “And Pawson’s Hardware had the other thing we needed.”
“What about the witches?” someone adds anxiously. “Will it be safe having them out in the open?”
“Have they made any attempt to escape since they were brought in?” I ask the sergeant who oversees the station’s cells.
“Nope. They’re shackled wrist and ankles, and we’ve taped their fingers so they can’t use their hands. They seem weirdly calm.”
“Are they talking to each other? Could they be making a plan?”
“Not that we’ve seen. They’ve been ordered not to speak.”
“But are they telepathic?” the anxious man persists. “Could they be, like, mind speaking.”
“Or mind controlling,” someone else adds. “Like they did to that dude. What if they hypnotize us and make us set them free?”
“Enough.” Tad slams the desk so hard it jumps and rattles beneath his fist. “They’re witches, not superheroes. They’re cuffed. Each witch has a guard, and both men have their guns drawn.”
“What if they make them shoot each other?”
“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Tad punctuates his words with his fists. “They are contained. And in just a couple hours, all this will be over.”
“One question,” says another officer, raising his hand. “What about the media? We’ve had reports of TV crews trying to cross the roadblocks. They say the quarantine is public-interest news.”
“Absolutely not,” I snap. “They’ll obstruct our preparations. And if they see inside the stadium, you can bet the governor will try to step in. That can’t happen. This trial is our right.”
If one thing will screw this up, it’s the presence of the press. People have second thoughts when they know their actions are being recorded for posterity, and we can’t afford any second thoughts.
Besides, what we’re embarked upon feels almost…sacred. This is how things always were. No calculatingly selected jury members. No lawyers to twist arguments. Just people speaking truth for their peers to hear and pass judgment.
Just a community meting out justice.
One Hundred One
Maggie
I come to on the sand at Green Point to find Chester by my side.
“I told Bolt I was gonna drive you straight to Middletown,” he says, after fussing to make sure I’m okay. “So how do you feel about riding back to Sanctuary in the trunk, because I think something bad is going down.”
“What?”
I listen groggily as he explains what’s happened. The CDC has closed the town, no vehicles going in or out. A public gathering in the football stadium. All officers needed.
“A public gathering?”
My brain runs through all sorts of scenarios, but there’s only one that fits. That Sanctuary is planning some kind of show trial of the Fenns. I suppress panicked laughter, because you’d have to be insane to think such a thing possible. Trials happen in courts, in front of juries. You can’t just seize a couple of people and hurl accusations at them. That’s not how law’s been done since back before we told the king of England where to stick his crown.
But then I remember Bolt’s face as he punched Sarah Fenn and clubbed me with his pistol. At some point in the night, I’m guessing right when his son died, Tad Bolt’s sanity took a hike and it won’t be home for a while.
“Whatever’s planned, we’ve got to stop it,” I tell Chester.
I pull out my phone and dial Remy. He answers on the second ring.
“Mags.” His tone is flat and clipped. “You’d better be calling to say you’re in the lobby ready to brief me on what the fuck is going on.”
“I’m still in Green Point. Someone’s about to drive me to a clinic. I’m concussed. Bolt knocked me out and grabbed the Fenns. I think he’s going to stage some kind of show trial, Remy. You have to send your boys in there and get them.”
“I’m glad you’ve just said you’re concussed, Maggie, because that explains why you’re making no sense. Bolt contacted me himself. With the CDC quarantine, I can’t send anyone to Sanctuary, so he’s taken the Fenns into custody, and our guys will collect them as soon as we have the all clear.”
“And you agreed to that? I told you he’s the threat…”
“Maggie. Calm down. You’ve gotten too invested in this case, and you know that’s never a good idea. This is twenty-first-century Connecticut. No one reset the clock to the Dark Ages while we weren’t looking.”
“Remy, please. Surely you can see how bad an idea this is? Bolt thinks the Fenns killed his son, too. I’m asking you, just send someone in to get them.”
“And break a quarantine?”
“And break a quarantine.”
“Maggie, this lockdown isn’t Bolt playing at Wild West justice. It’s been called by the C-Damn-C. The president is tweeting about it.”
“What doesn’t the president tweet about?”
Remy gives a bark of laughter, but his tone is all seriousness.
“I understand your concerns. I explained to Bolt very carefully that I wanted the Fenns safe and secure, and that our people will be on his doorstep the minute the roadblocks come down. He’s not dumb. He knows there’ll be repercussions if he doesn’t comply.”
“Remy, sir, I don’t thi
nk his head’s in a place where…”
“Go get your head looked at, Maggie. Then get back here. We’ll work this out.”
My boss hangs up. And I’d love to believe that he’s right.
But I don’t.
“Let’s get going,” I tell Chester. My deputy is hunched over his phone, tapping on a map.
“Just looking for the nearest clinic—for your concussion?”
“I’m fine. Just needed to give Remy an explanation why he might not be seeing me for a while. We’re heading right back that way.”
And I point along the road to Sanctuary.
One Hundred Two
Sarah
I sit on the thin metal bed as far as I can get from my daughter, who leans against the wall. I watch through one eye—the other has swollen shut—as Harper glances at the two guards on the other side of the bars.
The pair have been standing watch, guns drawn, since we were thrown in here. One weapon is trained on me, and the other on my child.
When Harper looks at them, and particularly when she smiles, the two cops fight their instinct to step back. They think they’re trying to avoid the wiles of an attractive teenage detainee. But are they attracted to her—or are they afraid of her?
Or is it both?
What if they’re responding to the signs that writhe across my daughter’s skin. That have been etched into it by a needle. Because there’s no mistaking what I saw on Harper’s body when she unzipped that wet suit and the thin vest she wore beneath rode up and bared her stomach. I know now why she has hidden her body from me, this past year and a half. Why she started wearing long sleeves and jeans. Why her bedroom door is always shut.
Of course I glimpsed some of the art that unfurled across her skin as Harper became an exquisite canvas. A snake coiled around one ankle. A feather balanced along each collarbone. But I never saw her midriff. And now I know why. Because there among wreathed vines and flowers hang dark, rotten fruit. The Old Signs.