"You think I've lost my marbles, don't you?"
He started to shake his head.
"Don't you?"
Her bright eyes trapped him and wouldn't let him go.
"Well ... "
"It's all right, I don't blame you. That's why I'm not going to explain about the cycle. I want you to look at it in black and white. Do you have a copy of your family tree?"
"What?" he asked, surprised that she would bring this up on the heels of Gus's similar statement.
"Surely you have a copy of your family tree. One that goes back to Tobias, the first Lawson to settle here."
''My grandfather does. He mentioned it the other night, said he wanted me to take a look at it for some obscure reason."
"Gus doesn't believe, but he knows. Look at it, John," she said urgently. ''And look at it soon. Then come back and see me. It's important to your son's safety. And your own."
"What are you saying?"
"You'll see it in the blood if you look hard enough ... if you open your mind to the possibility that coincidences aren't always flukes, but are vectors waiting to happen. Or to be prevented. It all depends on how well you listen to your inner voice. How many possibilities you allow yourself to consider. Never forget that history repeats itself."
''Minerva." he said, again at a loss for an answer. ''Why are you so interested in my son?"
"You'll see that in your tree as well. If you look for it. If you can accept it. And it will explain why you shouldn't feel guilty about your brother, either. It was a vector that no one could stop. I tried to tell you about Gregory in your dreams the other night, but you wouldn't let me in. Listen to me. You can stop it this time, John. You can stop it. "
"You were the one who found Lenore Tynan, aren't you?" He didn't know why he said it, but he felt it was true.
"Yes, but I'm admitting that only to convince you to listen to your intuition."
"Why did you claim it wasn't you?"
''There are enough rumors about me as it is. That those nightflyers bring me babies, that I cast spells. That I'm a witch."
"Are you?" Another unplanned question, but he forged ahead. "A witch, I mean?"
"If that's what you choose to call me. I prefer the term 'healer.'" She smiled softly. " 'Witch' has such negative connotations. These days, people think it means a Satanist, but it doesn't. To be a Satanist, you first have to be a Christian."
"You're an atheist?"
She laughed. "Not at all. There's a bit of God in all of us, in every creature and every tree. An atheist believes there is no god as strongly as a Christian believes God requires one to be Christian.''
"Gus is Christian, but he doesn't believe that.''
She nodded. ''Gus is a wise man. Gus is Christian for the same reason that other open-minded people are- it's the religion of this land. What do you believe, John?"
''I've never had much use for church." He felt himself blush. ''I think God is a personal thing. I guess I feel closest to God, or whatever it is, when I'm out fly-fishing. That sounds ludicrous, but-"
''Not at all. You commune with God through nature, as I do. It's not surprising. Who taught you fly-fishing?"
"Gus.'' He paused, then felt himself smile. "He says it's good for the soul.''
"You see? It's all in the interpretation."
"Do you cast spells?" he asked, uncomfortable talking about his beliefs, or lack of them, with the old woman.
"And dance by the light of the moon, or fly on my broom?" She shook her head. ''No flying, but my husband and I used to dance in the moonlight." A coy smile let him see the young woman she once was. ''Waltzes. Strauss, not Liszt, I assure you."
"Your husband?"
''He died a very, very long time ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Yes, but he had a good life. We had good children."
''Where are your children now?"
"All gone."
“I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry." He could feel the heat in his face. ''I have no business asking you questions like that."
''It's perfectly all right. My children are gone now, but some of their children are still alive."
"Do they ever visit?" Ever since his childhood, he'd thought of Minerva as the old witch in the woods, without husband or children, and though it was childish of him, the knowledge that he'd been wrong, that everyone he knew had been wrong about her, fascinated him.
"Sometimes they visit. Not often.''
"Did one of them call in about Lenore Tynan for you?"
''No," she said, disappointment on her face.
"Who, then?"
Minerva closed her eyes and sat up straight, and John wondered if she was having some sort of seizure. Then she spoke in the voice of a young woman. "I don't fly my broom, young man, but I do have a few little tricks."
She opened her eyes and smiled. John realized that his mouth was open. He snapped it shut then, in spite of himself, smiled. "That was amazing."
''Thank you."
"How did you do it?"
''Magic." Her smile broadened.
The grandfather clock began chiming six o'clock and John looked up in surprise. It felt like only a half hour had passed since Mark had left with the paramedics, but he'd been talking with Minerva Payne for nearly four times that. He rose and walked to the door. Minerva joined him.
"Will you check your family tree?"
"You and Gus both think it's important." he said lightly. "So I guess I'd better."
''Gus is a smart man. Give him my best when you see him." She paused. "There's something ... I don't know what. But talk to him soon."
"I will. And thanks for seeing to Mark." Uneasily, he realized it was growing dark. "I'll be in touch."
"Just stay on the path and you'll be fine," Minerva said, as she put her hand in the pocket of her long skirt. "There's nothing to trip on." She brought out a thin leather cord with a small brown cloth ball attached to it. ''Take this."
Dubiously, he held out his hand. It looked something like a native medicine bag. ''For Mark?"
''For you," she said ''Mark already wears one."
"Wears one? What is it?" He sniffed it, smelled a heady mixture of herbs.
"It's a protective amulet." she said lightly. "Humor an old lady, Sheriff, and keep it with you. It will help keep the darkness from your path."
He nodded, smiling tightly, and put the charm in his breast pocket. "Okay. Thanks." He started down the path, dreading backing the cruiser out of the forest in the dark almost as much as he dreaded delivering the bad news to the Parker clan.
Forty-three
Sara had gone straight to the Mother Superior's office after she'd parked her car with its nose slightly out of the stall to remind the gardeners- or Basil-Bob Boullan more likely, not to block it with manure and tools again.
Mother Lucy received her cordially enough, but she was intractable on the subject of Kelly Reed. The nun explained that Kelly had broken into her office and been caught stealing. She was, claimed Lucy, truculent, her only regret that she'd been caught in the act. On top of that, the girl had attacked Basil-Bob, when he'd attempted to escort her to the punishment room, and run away. ''Do you expect me to congratulate her instead of punish her, Miss Hawthorne?" Lucy had asked archly.
"No, no, of course not. But isn't a week in solitary confinement abusive?"
"No, of course it isn't. Were you never put in solitary during your time here as a student?"
"No."
''Well, then, you were unusually well behaved. The solitary room is at least as comfortable as your own room. She'll be brought three good meals a day and all her study material. She is simply being kept away from her friends."
"I'd like to see her."
"She's allowed no visitors."
"But I'm one of her teachers. Surely I'll be allowed to speak to her about her lessons."
"No. You'll give your lessons to Sister Regina, and she will deliver them to the girl."
''But- "
"No buts, Miss Hawthorne. You're far too sympathetic toward Kelly, and I'm afraid your visit would be pleasurable to her. This week, she is to reflect on her misdeeds. Sister Regina will not be sympathetic. She will be efficient and cool with the girl, and that's what she needs right now."
''What if something happens to her?"
"Illness?" Lucy gave her one of those thin-lipped smiles that threatened to crack her horsy face. "Sister Regina is a nurse, and the punishment room is right next to the infirmary. If she calls out, she'll be heard."
"At night?"
"Yes. Dr. Dashwood's quarters are nearby." Lucy opened her desk drawer and pulled out a gold chain with a heart-shaped locket and a thin dark leather thong with a small cloth bag attached. She pushed the latter across the desk, then swept the locket back into the drawer. ''Do you have any idea where this came from, Miss Hawthorne?"
Sara picked up the thong. The little round bag was redolent of the forest, a refreshing change from Lucy's mildewed cinnamon odor. "I have no idea where it came from," she said, passing it back. "What made you think I would?"
"It's been reported to me that Kelly has taken a liking to you. I thought perhaps she told you where she got it."
Sara remembered Kelly's urging her to talk to someone named Minerva. She suspected there was a tie there, but she shook her head. "She's told me nothing."
"Even Friday night, when she visited you in your room?"
"You know about that?" Sara blurted in surprise.
Lucy smiled condescendingly. ''We know everything, Miss Hawthorne."
Not everything. Sara held her hands together in her lap to keep them from trembling. "It looks like some sort of charm. doesn't it?" she asked, her eyes on the thong. "Kelly did say she was afraid of ghosts. Perhaps she made it to protect herself from them. Sort of like a rabbit's foot." Hopefully, that would defuse things.
''Then it's even worse, Miss Hawthorne."
''Why?"
"She's resorting to pagan superstition."
"Maybe if you gave her a set of rosary beads she'd be less fearful."
"She hasn't earned them."
"Then let her keep her good luck charm. It's merely a type of security blanket." Like your beads.
"I'll tell you this once, and only once. Don't presume to tell me how to handle my students."
"I didn't mean to- "
"Of course you didn't." Lucy rose and walked over to the closet, slid it open. As she moved, Sara heard the click of the nun's rosary, caught a brief glimpse of the beads at her waist, the cross dangling from them. It looked odd, but before she could figure out what was unusual about it, it slipped between the folds of black cloth again.
Lucy took something from the closet and brought it back to the desk. Reseating herself, she unfolded the blue material, revealing a lightweight windbreaker. She slipped her hand in a pocket and brought out a wallet, took a card from it and handed it to Sara. ''Do you know this boy?"
It was a student identification card for Moonfall High School. Even without the name- Mark Lawson- under the photo, she would have known his identity. He was obviously the sheriff's son, from his chestnut hair to the firm set of his jaw. "I've never seen him before," she said with complete honesty as she handed the card back to Lucy. ''Why?"
"This is what Kelly was stealing," she said, indicating the jacket and wallet. "Evidently she's been having trysts with the boy."
"Kelly?" Sara couldn't suppress a chuckle. "She's a late bloomer, and I seriously doubt she's to that stage yet. I'm sure that if she does know him, it's an innocent relationship."
"Don't be naive, Miss Hawthorne. Fortunately, we've nipped this in the bud. Dr. Dashwood says she's intact."
"Intact?"
"She still has her virginity."
"You mean you subjected her to an examination?"
''Of course." Mother Lucy actually appeared surprised.
''That's standard procedure in these cases."
''Where do you think they were meeting?" Sara asked abruptly. She couldn't bear to think about what Kelly must have gone through at this woman's behest.
''Why, in the bushes south of the chapel. Or perhaps the cemetery, behind the monuments. Why?"
At least she doesn't know Kelly's been in the woods. "I just couldn't think of any place around here where there'd be much privacy."
''I see." Lucy stood again, this time coming around the desk and walking to the door, which she opened. ''Good luck tomorrow," she said as Sara rose. ''If you have any questions, feel free to come to me with them."
''Thanks." Sara crossed the threshold.
"Miss Hawthorne?"
"Yes?" she asked, turning to face the nun.
Another smile like cracked china. ' 'Don't worry about Kelly Reed. She'll be fine."
Sara nodded, then turned and walked away, very worried about the girl.
Forty-four
I tried to tell you about Gregory in your dreams the other night, but you wouldn't let me in.
John sat in the easy chair in front of the dark television set in the living room, unable to get Minerva Payne's words out of his head. He was glad he'd been too concerned about Mark to confess to her his dream about being trapped in the room filling with blood while the old lady commanded him to unlock the door. Talk about Freudian- that dream had been about as obvious as it could get.
Minerva had been right about enough things that he couldn't help but give her ramblings some credence. Yes, he'd been virtually obsessed with thoughts of Mark before he'd known anything had happened to him, and since his conversation with Minerva he'd thought of half a dozen other incidents that he'd "known" were coming over the years. Gus's car crash, when he was a kid, for one. He'd known his mother was leaving about a month before she died- but he'd assumed she was going on a trip to visit her sister back East. And three years ago, he'd gotten up at four in the morning and driven over to Winesap's because he'd felt compelled to- and consequently stopped a burglary in progress. Maybe he'd even known about his brother's impending death. The feelings had always been there, so natural that he'd never even given them a second thought. They weren't reliable, though: he hadn't foreseen his father's death, nor Doug Buckman's, hadn't known about dozens and dozens of traffic accidents, thefts, bar brawls, or missing children. Or Barbara's unfaithfulness. He smiled bitterly, thinking that even so, perhaps there was something to what Minerva had said ...
He'd certainly seen the same ability in Mark- sometimes the boy answered questions before he could ask them, and once, two years ago, he had uncharacteristically played sick on a day his class was taking a field trip to the Santo Verde Museum. He claimed a bellyache and John knew he was faking but had a feeling he should let it go. Later that day, the bus had collided with a semi-truck just outside Yucaipa. Five kids had died, several had been laid up for months, and only a few had escaped without at least a few cuts and bruises. Minerva had claimed Gus had the ability as well, and John thought that was probably true.
Thinking of Gus made him realize that he still hadn't heard from his grandfather. He reached for the phone, knowing that he should be the one to tell him about today's incident. Gus and Caspar Parker were old cronies, and he would want to be with the Parkers now. For Gus, being a preacher, making the sympathy calls, providing a shoulder for crying, was second nature. For John, it was pure hell.
"Dad?" Mark asked quietly from the doorway. "Can we talk a minute?"
John replaced the phone receiver. "Of course we can. How's your neck?"
"It's okay," Mark said, as he plunked himself down on the couch opposite John. He was dressed in clean gray sweats and his hair was still damp from the shower. He'd spent at least an hour washing off the horrors of the day, the stain of death. John had done it more than once himself.
Since they'd come home, Mark had kept to himself, sullen in his grief, and John had stayed out of his way, knowing the boy would come to him when he was ready. He looked at his son now, saw his red-rimmed eyes, knew he'd been crying, and made
no comment, afraid that if he said the wrong thing, the boy would bolt.
"I've never seen one before," Mark said after five silent minutes had passed. "A dead person, I mean."
"It's a hard thing to see."
"Yeah." Mark snorted, trying to hide a hitch in his voice. "You can say that again." A minute passed, then two. "You know what?"
"What?"
"You know when they found that dead teacher in the pond?"
"Yes."
"I wanted to see it. The body. I can't believe it, but I was jealous that you got to see her. Gross, huh?"
"No. It's natural. I felt the same way before my little brother drowned. After that I never wanted to see another, probably because I could never shake the feeling that it was supposed to be me that died, not him."
"Yeah." Mark intently studied his hands. "I feel like that about Pete."
"But we're both wrong."
Mark looked up, interested.
"It's called 'survivor guilt.' That's what people usually feel when they're spared and someone they love isn't. It's completely normal." He paused. "But that doesn't help a whole lot, does it?"
''Maybe a little. Dad, how do you stand it?"
"What do you mean?''
"Seeing bodies."
"Honestly, son, I don't know. I was so affected by Greg's death that it was nearly crippling." He paused. "Maybe I had to have a job where I encountered death sometimes. My dad and Doug, one of my friends, died not too long after Greg, and I couldn't handle it. I kept dreaming about bodies. My brother's especially."
"Did you see your dad's body? Or your friend's?"
"No. And maybe that just made my phobia worse. My father's casket was closed, but I couldn't even go to the funeral. I knew he'd been shot in the head and I just kept imagining how he must look. I tried to go to Doug's services- all my classmates went- but I couldn't make myself step into the church.
"I didn't see another body until I found one stuffed in a car trunk during my first year as a deputy. That brought the phobia back full force. That corpse was the worst." He smiled sardonically. "In more ways than one.''
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