“Listen to this,” he said. “‘In the early years of their marriage, Charles’s independent studies began to focus solely on demonology. He taught his wife Beverly as they sat in their first marital home in Parish, Kansas. Beverly absorbed all her husband taught her. His devotion and attention was more than enough payment for her listening ear.’
“Can you believe this guy? He’s his own biggest fan.”
I merged onto 55 north and George continued.
“‘But the more Beverly learned, the more fearful she became. She began to wonder if the guides—though they had always been calming, helpful, even life-saving—were malevolent. Perhaps they wanted something in return for their service? Perhaps she would not know until one day, out of the blue, they demanded payment for all they had given her. After all, the guides held her greatest treasure: her mind. From there, they could control her sanity, her actions, perhaps her very soul.’”
“Wow,” I said. “Pretty intense.”
“Oh, he’s just getting warmed up.” George turned the page. “‘Over the initial months of their marriage, as Charles lectured of demons, Beverly grew more and more troubled, until finally, one winter night in January of 1970, she confessed her greatest fear of all.
“‘Am I evil?’ she asked her husband desperately. “‘Am I possessed by these demons?’
“‘And Charles answered honestly, ‘I don’t know.’
“Good God,” I said.
“I know. What an asshole. Wait, there’s more. ‘But Charles vowed to her that he would find out the truth. Together, they would uncover her affliction, they would discover if it was sinister or benevolent, if these guides were to be trusted or feared.’”
George closed the book and smacked the cover with the back of his hand. “What a load of horseshit.” He immediately opened it back up, flipping through the pages.
“But did you see her face?” I said. “No one could be that good an actress.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because…because she turned white. Right before my very eyes, her skin changed color. I mean, it paled by several shades.”
“So? She dropped her blood pressure. That’s physically possible.”
“That strange language, though. Was that Latin? Arabic?”
“Gibberish.”
“What?
“Completely nonsensical.”
“She made it up?”
He shrugged.
“But...she’d have to be crazy.”
“That’s another reasonable explanation.” He held up Beverly’s memoir. “Little girl starts to hear voices, never tells anyone, so instead of being diagnosed with a mental illness, a man comes along, marries her, tells her she’s hearing demons.”
“But...why?”
George only shrugged again. But after a long, silent moment, he put the book face down on his lap, and drummed his fingers on the dashboard.
“Anyone with the right motive is capable of anything, Thea. It’s the basic essence of being human. We have equal capacity for good or evil.”
“I guess.”
“You guess? Look, when you stop believing in the supernatural, you have to start believing in the vast reaches of deception—or insanity—of which human beings are capable. That’s what’s terrifying, not ghosts or demons.”
He picked up the book again, and we drove the rest of the way in silence.
All the way home, I thought about the people George had researched. I remembered a man in rural Vermont who had written twelve volumes of memoirs describing his past lives, another man in Phoenix who showed us the hundreds of gashes in his skin over every part of his body that kept appearing overnight as he slept, the woman in New York terrified because her doppelganger kept following her everywhere she went.
And I remembered Martha Sassaman setting up pressure plates to trick her sons into believing in ghosts.
Deception or insanity? Were those the only two choices?
“What exactly,” I ask Beverly, “do you think George is saying to you?”
‘He mentions another woman...”
Rita’s fork drops with a loud clatter onto her salad plate.
“Jesus, lady,” Mitch starts.
Mr. and Mrs. Burns grip hands on the table. I watch their hands and not the faces of the people around me.
She’s not talking to George.
She is not.
“…the dragonfly with black hair…” Beverly continued in that familiar lilting voice I recognize from the video of her reading. “…and hazel eyes—”
“Enough,” Rita says. “We’re here to find out what happened to George.”
“George was taken by—”
“Where were you that night?”
Silence freezes the room, as if someone hit the pause button.
Charles grips his wine glass. “You mean to accuse—” He pauses to collect himself, place his glass on the table, and continues in a purposely calm voice. “You might recall that our film crew were the ones who found him that morning.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Rita says. “And I think your wife can speak for herself.”
Beverly blinks rapidly. She looks at her husband.
“Here,” says Mrs. Burns. “Mrs. Donneville was here at the house, with us. I remember it well.”
Mr. Burns nods. “They both were.”
“Yes,” his wife agrees, “all night.”
They’re both nodding now, still gripping hands on the tabletop.
Beverly lifts her chin, eyes half closed. “Beyond this life, there is a series of worlds—”
“Oh, shut up!” Rita jumps to her feet and stomps from the room.
Mitch stands. “I’m sorry. He was our friend.” He follows Rita.
Charles carefully places his fork across his plate and slides an arm around Beverly’s shoulders, pulling her close. “I believe this conversation has come to its natural conclusion. If I had anticipated such abuse of my wife, I never would have allowed it.”
“It’s all right, Charles,” says Beverly. “The woman is grieving for her friend.”
“His wife is capable of containing her emotions,” he says, gesturing to me.
“Grief is expressed differently by everyone.”
Charles huffs but nods to his wife. “I suppose you’re right.”
“More wine?” asks Mrs. Burns brightly.
We all hold out our glasses.
With his arm around Beverly, Charles strokes her hair, a movement that seems to calm him.
He sits back, clears his throat. “I, too, know of grief,” he pontificates. “When I was a young man, my two older brothers went to Vietnam. The oldest was killed within days. I was angry. Angry at God, mostly. I remember threatening God, telling him that I would forsake him, spend my days speaking against his name unless he delivered my second brother home safely.”
Charles takes a sip from his wine glass. “But he was changed. Silent. Distant. It was like my brother had been hollowed out, his spirit harvested, and a shell returned to us. He hardly spoke. He spent hours a day practicing a form of martial arts he’d learned, hand to hand combat, knives and ropes. I used to watch him for hours. Mesmerizing.”
“But he did die,” I say. “Your brother James. I read it in your memoir.”
“Did you now? Well, you’re right. He took his own life eighteen months after returning from the war. But he did come home. I saw him again. I got to tell him how proud of him I was, and I am grateful to God for that time with him before he moved on.”
“Moved on.” I turn to Beverly. “What were you saying about a series of worlds?”
She straightens at being called upon. “Beyond death,” she says, “a series of worlds through which travelers must journey to reach their ultimate destination: at the side of God.”
“And how do you know this?”
She blinks rapidly. “Through my faith. And through the thousands of souls with which I have spoken since I was a child.”
Mrs. Burn
s speaks, “My Emily has a strong faith. She always says, ‘Faith is letting go of the fear of the unknown.’”
Mrs. Burns turns to me. “I hear it from her all the time.”
Beverly reaches across the table and pats Mrs. Burns’s hand.
“Through Beverly’s readings, you mean?” asks Jeremy.
“Yes.” Our hostess inhales deeply, exhales and stands. “Time for the main course,” she says.
“I’ll help,” says Mr. Burns, leaving with her.
“George would say,” I continue when they’ve left, “that this journey, as you call it, ends at death. He wrote about his skepticism repeatedly.”
“Ah, but he wasn’t writing before his death, was he? Perhaps even then, he was beginning to question his certainties.”
She cannot know that. She cannot know George wasn’t writing.
“He was gathering research to begin writing when we got home. He wasn’t questioning anything. He strongly believed that life is here and now, that it ends at death, and it is precisely those limitations that give our lives immeasurable value.”
“Yes, but Thea, he has gone through his transition now. His beliefs have altered dramatically, I assure you. It is more than just his words. I can also feel his mood. He is sorry…about the argument. He regrets his doubt of you. And of Calvin.”
Every eye turns toward me. I grip my fork with a tightening fist.
Every couple argues. She is guessing. She must know George had a brother named Calvin, but she cannot know about our argument that night. She cannot know the words we said.
“He says he loves you, too. And it’s true, Thea. I can feel the love he has for you. But also...I can feel his fear.”
“I thought you said he was safe?”
She shakes her head. “No, dear, his fear for you. You have sat upon the Throne.”
“Is that a threat?”
We all look up at Rita standing in the doorway.
“Who’s hungry?” Mitch appears, nudging his wife aside and pulling a silver cart as Mr. Burns pushes from behind.
Mrs. Burns lifts the domes and Mitch distributes the warm plates filled with roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green beans. He holds a chair out for Rita with whom he exchanges a pointed look before she lowers herself into it.
“Now,” says Mitch as he takes the last plate for himself and settles at the table. “Couldn’t help but overhear. My friend George, who, I should tell you,” he pokes a fork in the air at Beverly Donneville, “I know better than anyone else at this table, save his wife over there, has suddenly dropped every tenet of logic and reason he built in his living existence and suddenly aligned his beliefs with yours because he found himself on a metaphysical plane after he left his physical body. Do I have that right?”
Beverly regards him with a lifted chin.
“Because I gotta tell you…” He saws at a slice of roast beef and shakes his head. “Hard to believe. Very hard to believe. ‘Course, that’s my problem, isn’t it? I find belief difficult. I need compelling evidence.” He pops the bite in his mouth and chews politely with his lips closed and smiling.
He finishes the bite as the Donnevilles watch him in silence, then saws off another hunk as he continues.
“See…I need to tell you about a little conversation George and I had. That night, he called me. He talked about Allerton.”
He pauses, but neither Beverly or Charles shows any sign of surprise.
“The question is, how do you know about it? Because he didn’t tell anyone else.”
Beverly slowly lifts a tiny forkful of potatoes to her mouth, masticates with ladylike refinement, and takes a small sip of wine.
“As I’ve explained. George told me,” she says finally.
“So, he told you exactly what Allerton meant, then?” asks Mitch. “He explained it to you?”
“It was a message to his wife. He asked me to contact her, to warn her.”
“But you didn’t,” I say.
Beverly turns to me. “I’m sorry?”
“You didn’t contact me.”
“I hadn’t had the chance. George’s first communication with me was a warning and a plea for help to get the truth out about the danger of the Witch’s Throne.
Charles slides his arm around her shoulders again, and she bows her head a moment.
“But now,” she says when she lifts her head, “I can no longer help you. You have sat upon the Throne.”
Mitch coughs loudly and finishes his wine. Rita crosses her arms. Mitch scoots back his chair with a loud squeal and stands, stretches his arms. “Whelp. Gots to get going. Early morning, lots to do, you understand. People to talk to, curses to disprove, fraud to expose. You understand.”
“I’ll walk you out,” says Mrs. Burns, standing.
Mr. Burns remains at the table with the Donnevilles as we walk through to the house.
In the foyer, I see another portrait of Emily.
“When did she die?” I ask Mrs. Burns.
She smiles sadly. “When she was twenty-three. A few months after this photo was taken. That’s her on the steps of her first apartment in Chicago. She shared it with two friends from college. They moved there the day after graduation.” Her head bows. “She had a job downtown, a sweet boyfriend, a whole new life she had started.” She looks back up at me with glossy eyes. “She lived there forty-three days before she was killed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“By a man. A man who attacked her one night. Her boyfriend was away on a business trip. She was meeting friends after work, but she had to work late. She walked three blocks from the El to the bar where they were meeting. That’s where he took her. Somewhere in those three blocks. He wasn’t a...a criminal or a crazy, violent man. We saw him at the trial. He was a nice-looking man. He offered to walk with her—”
She breaks off with a sob. The others have all stopped at the door, listening. Beverly slides an arm over her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“She’s not gone. I know that. I knew that even before I met Beverly and Charles. I could still feel her, and as long as I could still feel her, still hear her voice in my head, I knew she wasn’t gone completely. You know what I mean, don’t you?”
I nod.
“That’s why Beverly was sent to us. That’s the reason. Emily sent her as a way to communicate with us. Don’t pass up such a gift, Mrs. Drake. If there is any part of you that believes George is still with you, don’t deny that belief.”
We file out the front door, Jeremy last. Mrs. Burns stops him. “I’m sorry, dear. I’ve completely forgotten to ask. How is your uncle since his stroke?”
“Doing all right. I take care of him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. It’s so decent of you to stay and care for him. It must run in the family. Martin always took such loving care of his mother until she passed.”
“Yeah,” says Jeremy. “He told me about her. Religious lady.”
“Oh yes, that she was. Never without that Bible in her hand. Couldn’t carry on a conversation with her unless it was regarding scripture. Martin always made sure she got to church every week. When the Old North closed, he drove her to Medford. He did take good care of her.”
“You knew the Fishers?” I ask.
“Of course. Born and raised here in Portico. I’ve known Martin since we were kids. He’s only a few years older than me. Went through school together.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Small town, there’s not much of us left, the ones who were born and raised here. He was a quiet boy. Especially after the accident.”
“Accident?”
“Sure, with Jesse Root. You know all about it.”
“You remember when that happened?”
“I was young, not yet in school, but I remember it well. Martin was the one who started it. Dared Jesse to sit on the tree, called it the Witch’s Throne, all of that. He must have blamed himself, I know. He never was quite the same after Jesse died.”
&
nbsp; Mitch and Rita are passing through the front door, but Jeremy stands next to me, white-faced, staring at Ethel Burns.
“My uncle knew Jesse Root?”
“Yes, of course. They were friends. It was horrible. Martin watched him drowned. I’m sure it’s stayed with him his whole life.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“The junkyard,” says Jeremy as soon as Mrs. Burns wishes us a good night and closes the front door.
He looks orange under the Burnses porch light. He swallows with a strange gulping noise in his throat, as if he’s trying to keep from vomiting.
On the front walk, Rita paces excitedly. “We’ve got her. We’ve got her now.”
Mitch reaches out to stop her. “What do you mean?”
“Thea sat on the Throne!” She throws an arm out toward me. “Three days from now, Beverly’s coming for her. We can catch her in the act.”
I walk with them, stepping away from the porch so there’s no chance the Burnses—or the Donnevilles—can overhear us. “The act of what?” I ask.
Jeremy follows, pulling at my sleeve. “We have to go back to the junkyard,” he says.
“Beverly has an alibi,” I tell Rita. “The Burnses say she was here all night.”
“Please. You believe them? She’s got them convinced she’s in contact with their dead daughter.”
“Okay,” says Mitch, sliding an arm around his wife’s waist and guiding her toward the car. “Let’s not do this on the front lawn.”
“That’s…” I follow them down the walk. “I have a hard time believing that loopy psychic in there is going to murder me.”
“In three days, we’ll find out.”
“I don’t have three days. I’m flying home tomorrow.”
They stop. “No, Thea.” Rita pulls away from Mitch and confronts me, inches from my face. “You have to stay here and see this through.”
“Hey!”
We all turn. Jeremy is glaring at us.
“Forget about Beverly for a minute. What if George was right?” he says. “What if Roger McMillan was right? What if all the deaths blamed on the Throne are connected? What if they were all murders? And what…what if all those people were all killed by the same person?”
The Witch's Throne (Thea Drake Mystery Book 1) (Thea Drake Mysteries) Page 19