Crimson Shore

by Douglas Preston

  “Look out!” Pendergast called from the bow.

  Gavin swerved around a partly submerged piling, then turned his eyes back forward. A group of red-winged blackbirds, disturbed by their passage, rose up in a flock from a heavy patch of cattails. A few hundred yards ahead he could see the beginning of the salt marsh mazes, where waterways and islands all came together in a confusion of channels and culs-de-sac. The mudflats were now fully covered by the high tide, but that wouldn’t last long.

  Pendergast had heard the scream when the tide was incoming, and he’d been able to target the general area on a map. Gavin glanced at his own map—an NOAA chart—and thought again about the currents. If the presumed killer had dumped the body into the water, the incoming tide would have carried it deeper into the marshes, where it probably would have snagged up in some backwater and they might never find it. Then again, if it hadn’t gotten snagged and the tide turned, it would be carried out almost to sea, as the body of the historian had apparently been.

  Really, with these crazy currents, the body could be anywhere.

  “Okay,” said the chief, speaking loudly into his radio over the sound of the 18-horse Evinrude, “Jack, you take the right channel, we’ll take the middle, and you, Ken, take the left.”

  The boats separated and Gavin guided their skiff into the central channel. Soon they had lost sight of the two other boats, separated by banks of salt grass. Damn, it was cold. It was a gray, monochromatic world. He could see a chevron of Canada geese in the sky, making their way southward.

  “Slow down, and keep your eyes peeled,” said the chief.

  Gavin throttled down the tiller. The channel had narrowed, but now, going every which way, were branching channels.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  Before the chief could speak, Pendergast extended a skeletal hand, pointing toward a channel, map unrolled. Gavin wondered where Constance was; he found himself wishing, rather perversely, that it was her in the bow instead of Pendergast. The man gave him the creeps.

  The chief for once kept his mouth shut as they turned into the designated channel. It was narrower, and here and there tree trunks were snagged into the embankments or sunken into the muck, black branches reaching out of the water as if to impede their progress. There were a million places a body could hang up and get covered by the tide. That was assuming the body was even in the water—if it was lying in the middle of an island of salt grass, it wouldn’t be found until the crows started circling.

  Pendergast pointed again, and then again, never saying a word, and Gavin continued up one channel and down another. If there was a method to this madness, it wasn’t evident. The chief simply sat in the middle of the boat with his hammy arms crossed, frowning, his face expressing disgust with the entire effort. He didn’t even make a pretense of looking.

  The minutes dragged by in silence. Gavin felt completely lost, but by the way Pendergast kept checking his map and making marks on it with a pencil, he was assured the FBI agent knew where they were.

  “Um, Agent Pendergast?” he ventured.

  The white face turned to him.

  “The tide’s turned. Just wanted you to know. Got some currents developing.”

  “Thank you. Continue, if you please.”

  If you please. That accent—he’d never heard one like it. Southern, of course, but different somehow. He wondered if the man was boning Constance.

  Up one channel, down another. It only seemed to get colder. A couple of seagulls followed them for a while, crying loudly, and one dropped a jet of waste right beside the boat. Rats with wings, the lobstermen called them. Once in a while the chief would speak to the others on the radio. It seemed they were not having much luck, either, and one of the boats was apparently lost. They were trying to get a GPS reading, but without cell coverage they couldn’t get a good fix.

  Pendergast certainly wasn’t lost. Or if he was, he was doing a good job of covering it up.

  Now the current was really picking up, the water flowing out. The boat struggled against it, throttled up but not really making good time against the current. Gavin checked his watch.

  “Agent Pendergast?” he repeated.

  Again the white face turned.

  “Tide’s down about two feet. Another half hour and we better be well out of here.”

  “Understood.” The black-clad arm pointed again, and they took yet another fork. And now Gavin could see the chief beginning to get nervous.

  “Gavin’s right,” Mourdock said. “I think we’d better head back out, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  This was ignored. They continued on.

  “Stop!” came a barked order from Pendergast, his hand shooting up like a semaphore. They were passing yet another waterlogged tree, lodged in the now-exposed muck at the upper side of the embankment. Gavin throttled down, but not too much, as the current would sweep them back downstream otherwise.

  “Bring the boat in to that snag,” said Pendergast.

  “It’s too shallow,” Gavin said. “We’ll ground out.”

  “Then ground out.”

  “Hold on,” said the chief, alarmed. “What’s so damned important that we have to risk our lives?”

  “Look.” And Pendergast pointed.

  There, just under the murky surface of the water, wagging back and forth in the current in a grotesque parody of a farewell wave, was a pale hand.

  “Oh, shit,” Gavin muttered.

  “Toss the rope over that exposed branch and tie us up,” said Pendergast.

  Gavin made a loop with the rope and tossed it toward the branch, goosing the throttle to keep the boat steady. He got it on the first try, cut the engine, raised it, and then hauled the boat over to the log, tying it securely. He could feel the resistance of the mud against its bottom, the current thrumming past the hull.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea at all,” said the chief.

  But Pendergast was leaning out, hanging over the side of the boat. “Give me another rope.”

  Gavin passed it to him. The agent reached down, grasped the arm, and pulled it out of the water. The head now appeared, just breaking the surface. Gavin rushed over to help, overcoming his revulsion to grasp the other submerged, lolling arm.

  Pendergast tied the rope around the wrist. The body was only lightly caught up on the snag and it suddenly floated free, coming to the surface and heading downstream.

  “Pull!” Pendergast ordered.

  Gavin pulled the rope, using the skiff’s oarlock as a brake, and they hauled the body against the current and up to the side of the boat.

  “For God’s sake, you’re not bringing that into the boat!” cried the chief.

  “Move over,” said Pendergast sharply, but the chief needed no urging to scramble aside as they grasped the body, preparing to haul it in. “On three.”

  With a great heave the two got it over the gunwale, the body flopping onto the bottom of the boat like a huge dead fish. Its clothes were torn and shredded by its journey through the currents, and it lay facedown, the back exposed. Pendergast, still grasping the lifeless arm, rolled the man over.

  Gavin immediately recognized the face. When he next saw the cuts on the body, he was so shocked he was temporarily unable to speak.

  Not so the chief. “It’s Dana Dunwoody!” he said. He glanced at Pendergast. “You know, Brad here told me just yesterday that you had your suspicions about him. If this is what happens to your suspects, I hope you don’t start suspecting me.”

  Neither Gavin nor Pendergast paid any attention. They were too busy looking at the body.

  “Cut up just like that historian,” Gavin finally managed to say.

  “Indeed,” murmured Pendergast. “The Tybane inscriptions, once again.” He leaned over the body, his face so close to the gray, rubbery, glistening skin it was positively disgusting. “Curious. The cuts on Mr. McCool were done with confidence and vigor. These, or at least certain of these, appear to be different.”

&n
bsp; “Fine, fine, let the M.E. sort it out,” said Mourdock. “Let’s call the others and get the hell out of here.”

  22

  Sister, come in!”

  Constance hesitated at the threshold of the shopfront in the seedy mall on the outskirts of Salem. A woman in a Victorian dress not unlike her own had risen with alacrity and swept out toward her. “Welcome to the Coven of Salem! From whence do you hail?”

  Constance moved into the spacious room, which had once been some sort of store, but was now repurposed into a reception area and meeting place. There was nothing strange or sinister about it; it was, rather, a sunny, cheerful space with thick carpeting and yellow-painted walls. A dark green curtain closed off the rear of the space. She had the feeling this was the woman’s residence as well as her coven.

  She took another step inside.

  “Shoes off!” the woman said sharply.

  “I beg your pardon.” Constance removed her flats.

  “Come in and sit down, please.”

  Constance put down her bag and eased herself into a chair. It was uncomfortable and a little grimy, and she once again reflected on how much she’d rather be back at 891 Riverside Drive, playing the harpsichord or reading a book, instead of rising at the crack of dawn to take a hired car from Exmouth to Salem at Pendergast’s request. The agent had returned to the Inn at four in the morning, stopping only long enough to change his clothes before running out again to rendezvous with the police. He’d looked in on her before leaving, mentioned something about an incident in the swamps, promised to give her all the details at dinner, and exhorted her to make all possible haste to Salem. Your analysis, and your recommendations, are most necessary. More than once, his words of praise the previous morning had echoed in her mind. He had entrusted her with this assignment; he considered it to be important—and as a result, whatever her private thoughts might be, she would do everything she could to see it through successfully.

  The woman sat down opposite her. She was a solid, firm-looking figure in her forties, with a prominent bust and a pugnacious chin, thrust forward. She eyed Constance with a faintly suspicious air and spoke with stilted formality. “I am Shadow Raven, of the Salem Coven, the largest of its kind in New England.” She made a strange, old-fashioned gesture with her hand, a medieval flourish of some sort.

  “I am Constance Greene.”

  “How nice to meet you.” The woman looked her up and down. “What a beautiful dress. Princess-line with a hint of mutton-leg sleeves. Where did you get it?”

  “I’ve had it for a while.”

  “And what coven are you from, sister? I thought I knew all the Wiccan practitioners in New England, but I have not seen you before.”

  “I’m not from any coven. I’m not Wiccan.”

  A look of surprise. And then the woman relaxed her guard. “I see. You have an interest in Wicca, however? Perhaps you are looking for a teacher?”

  Constance considered this a moment. “Yes, I do have an interest, but not in the way you might think. I’m investigating a murder.”

  “And what,” said Raven, her voice suddenly wary and her suspicious look returning, “could the Salem Coven possibly have to do with a murder?”

  “You misunderstand. I’ve come not to accuse but to ask for your help.”

  The woman eased herself back. “I see. In that case, I would be happy to oblige. You must understand, witches have been subjected to persecution and lies for many centuries. Wicca is all about peace, harmony, and oneness with the divine. To be a white witch is to be a healer, a teacher, a seeker! It is worth pointing out that our religion predates Christianity by twenty thousand years.” Her tone had become condescending. “Yes, we do perform magick, but our spells involve healing, wisdom, and love. We do not engage in satanic worship or consort with demons. Satan is a Christian creation and you can keep him, thank you!”

  She folded her hands.

  “I have no interest in Satan or any other demon,” said Constance, trying to stem the flow and redirect the conversation. “I’m here because I’d like your opinion on a certain set of inscriptions.”

  “Inscriptions, you say? Let us see them.”

  She held out her hand. Constance withdrew the sheet of paper that Pendergast had given her and passed it over. Raven took it, glanced at it.

  A sudden, ice-cold silence descended on the room. “What is your interest in these?” the woman demanded.

  “As I told you, I’m investigating a murder.”

  Raven quickly handed them back. “Wicca has nothing to do with the Tybane Inscriptions. I can’t help you.”

  “What, exactly, are the Tybane Inscriptions?”

  “They have no relation to our coven or us. ‘Harm none’ is our creed. Anyone who intends harm through magick is not a Wiccan or a witch. Just to bring them in here, to soil this place of worship, is unacceptable. Now, I am a busy woman. I will ask you to remove yourself and those markings immediately.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” Constance said, “that you know something of these markings? And yet you refuse to tell me?”

  The woman rose in a vast, indignant rustle of fabric. “The door is over there, Miss Greene.”

  Constance did not move. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the woman, who was staring down at her, the loose folds of skin under her chin trembling, a fat finger pointing to the door.

  “Are you deaf, woman? Get out!”

  At hearing this voice shouting directly into her face, Constance could feel a stirring of the terrible anger that had afflicted her in the past. She swallowed, felt herself going pale with rage. She rose to her feet, eyes locked on the woman. Raven stared back, her expression full of imperious defiance.

  Constance took a step forward. Now she was so close to the woman that they were almost touching. She could smell patchouli and frankincense. The woman faltered, her eyes flickering away momentarily.

  “I—” the woman said, then stopped, unable to continue.

  Curiously, as if from a great distance, Constance watched as her right hand slowly rose. She took the loose wattle of skin under the woman’s chin between her own thumb and first finger.

  The woman stared back, unable to speak, eyes widening.

  Now Constance began to squeeze, first gently, then harder. Raven staggered, made a strange gurgling deep in her throat.

  In utter silence, Constance squeezed a little harder, directing her nails inward, digging into the clammy, fleshy skin.

  All of a sudden, the woman found her voice. She fell backward, gasping in a huge lungful of air as Constance released her grip. “You!” she said, staring at Constance in terror. “Please…please…”

  Constance lowered her hand.

  “I’ll help. Just don’t look at me like that, please.” Reaching behind herself, her eyes glued to Constance’s, the woman found the arms of her wing chair and eased herself down, as if stricken. Red weals were already coming up on the skin of her throat.

  Constance remained standing.

  “What I speak of…no one can know the source.”

  It was a moment before the anger had receded sufficiently for Constance to trust her own voice. At last, she replied. “I will maintain total confidentiality.”

  “Well then…well then…” The woman reached out for a glass of water sitting on a side table, drank from it with a trembling hand, replaced it with a rattle. “No one knows precisely what the Tybane Inscriptions mean,” she said, her voice hoarse. “They were found incised on a slate tablet over a century ago in the Exmouth marshes. On the site of what we believed to be the Sabbat Ground of a long-abandoned coven.”

  “Sabbat Ground?”

  “A place where witches perform their ceremonies. But these were not Wiccans—white witches. These were black witches.”

  “Explain.”

  “Wherever there is power to do good, as in our Wiccan spells and rituals, there are also some who would turn magick the other way. The temptation for power or retribution is always pr
esent in life—through loss of a job, rivalry for affections, whatever.”

  “And what does Tybane mean?”

  “Bane is from the Old English bana, meaning ‘an affliction or curse.’ It also refers to poison. Wolfsbane, for example, so called because it was used to kill wolves.”

  “And the Ty portion of the word?”

  “A mystery.”

  “What, if anything, are the Tybane Inscriptions used for today?”

  “There are rumors—rumors only. Some may use them to invoke dark powers, or for black rituals. The inscriptions are formidable and wicked, but only the most reckless or desperate witch would use them, because their exact purpose and meaning is so unclear. It’s playing with fire.”

  “Have you ever used them?”

  The woman hung her head.

  “Where is this inscribed stone now?” Constance went on.

  “It was destroyed a long time ago. But its discoverer left his notes behind.”

  “To what notes do you refer?”

  “The papers of an amateur archaeologist named Sutter. They’re here, in the Old Salem Historical Society.” A pause. “Some have yielded to the temptation and made the unfortunate pilgrimage to consult those papers.”

  “And?”

  The woman did not look up. “They have all come to regret it.”

  23

  Constance Greene walked through the charming center of Salem on her way to the Old Salem Historical Society, which lay about a mile from the coven. She was surprised to find it to be a prosperous and imposing brick building of late nineteenth-century construction. She entered to find herself in a spacious lobby, updated with all the latest in computer catalogs and electronic equipment, and guarded by metal detectors run by a potbellied security officer.

  In a moment she was through, thoroughly irradiated and wanded, much to her annoyance. A cheerful lady behind the desk was, it turned out, familiar with the Sutter papers and directed her to the third-floor department where they could be found.