The Witch's Grave

by Phillip DePoy

  “You’ve got to see this.” I moved toward the arrangement.

  “I’m not putting my hand in some blast of hot air,” he insisted, “just for your amusement.”

  “Not that,” I said, inching closer to the sunny corner, eyes locked on it. “There’s something on the porch.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a collection of things,” I said, bending down, “from the dream I was telling you about.”

  That was enough. He started toward me. “What do you mean?”

  “The exact phrase my great-grandmother used,” I said to Andrews, “was ‘sedge and hazel, weed and water, rock and salamander.’”

  “You remember it that precisely?” He took the steps, staring down at the circle of weeds. “You know, I think this is weed.”

  “Unusual in Truevine’s garden,” I admitted. “There’s not a weed anywhere. It must have come from the hillside up there.”

  “No, Grandpa,” he chided. “Weed, pot, grass, marijuana.”

  “What?” I peered down at it.

  “If memory serves,” he assured me, “that’s what it looks like.”

  “Hemp!”

  “I guess some people call it that.” He eyed me sidelong.

  “I didn’t tell you about the hemp circle the girl made in the story,” I said, my words quickening. “That’s what brought her lover’s spirit from Baffin Bay to her side.”

  “So you’re saying all this stuff was in your dream just like this?”

  I stared down. “Something like it.”

  “Well, you don’t need to sound so spooky about it,” Andrews said calmly. “It was here when you came to visit the boys the other day. You said yourself that you may have seen something your conscious mind took in but didn’t register.” He dismissed the assemblage in the corner with a flourish of his hand. “Exhibit A.”

  “Oh.” I let out the breath I’d been holding for a while. “You know, I might have.” I saw the things with new eyes. “In fact, this stone? Could be one I picked up when Dover dragged me. So why did this gunk come up in the dream?”

  “You understand this conglomeration,” he said slowly, “is a not unlike the assemblage of stones and trash in the corner of the Adele crypt.”

  “It is.”

  “And anyway, why would these particular things manifest in your subconscious? Why hemp, for instance?”

  “Wild hemp,” I answered him, “not the smoking kind, the rope-making variety, grows as a weed here. The symbology is clear: the plant that makes rope works in a spell of binding.”

  “Makes sense,” he admitted, “in context.” He bit his lower lip. “Hang on.” His voice picked up. “You mean this is the spell from your dream. Truevine was trying to call back her lover’s departed spirit—something she said in the Newcomb mansion.”

  “She thought Able was dead,” I agreed. “She believed this would bring him back to her.” I nudged the stone with my toe. “And it did.”

  “You’ve got an idea,” he said, watching the side of my face. “You know something.”

  The brothers being nowhere to be found, I told Andrews we were going to speak with Hezekiah Cotage. His church was not far away. We’d clear up a few things about his past, and I’d order them in my mind. Andrews didn’t understand, but he’d chosen to give up thinking too hard.

  The church, a white box in the middle of the woods, gleamed in the slant of autumn sunlight. All the saints of the day had apparently decided to look in on Hek: the grace of illumination, the air, a carpet of surrounding burgundy leaves, made the plain little building seem a cathedral. We pulled up close to the door. There were no other cars.

  Inside voices were lifted in song, page 65 from the new 1991 edition of the Sacred Harp book, Sweet Prospect. “Oh, the transporting rapt’rous scene that rises to my eye, Sweet fields arrayed in living green And rivers of delight.”

  Andrews and I sat in the truck, unwilling to disturb the sound as it wrapped around us like a clean autumn wind, bracing, washing away darker thought.

  The singing ended. A moment later an older couple appeared in the doorway; affectless and slow. They moved without speaking onto the path that wandered down the mountain. One by one the rest of the parishioners exited the church. I got out of the truck.

  Hek came to the door.

  “I thought I heard your truck,” he said. “Is that Dr. Andrews?”

  Andrews got out the passenger side, waved.

  “You missed the service,” Hek said.

  “We heard the last song, though,” Andrews said, shaking his head. “I still can’t get used to that harmonic structure; it’s very strange.”

  “Simple,” Hek said proudly. “Ancient harmony.”

  “Have you ever recorded that stuff?” Andrews asked me.

  “There certainly are recordings of the music,” I said, “lots of good ones, but when I hear them I’m always a little disappointed. It’s impossible to capture the feeling of that sound.”

  “You have to be in church,” Hek agreed, “to hear those hymns right. You want to come in, talk?”

  “I do,” I answered.

  “Thought so.” He disappeared back into the church.

  We followed.

  “You mow the lawn since I was here last?” Andrews asked, teasing. It had been over a year since his most recent visit. “The place looks cleaner.”

  “Got a new paint job,” Hek said, not looking back over his shoulder. “New roof.”

  “Collection plate must be full,” Andrews said, looking around the inside of the place.

  “All donated,” Hek said absently.

  Walls were whitewashed; benches were sturdy; the floor was worn but swept clean. Windows were clear; light poured in like honey. At the far end of the tabernacle was a stone bowl that served as baptismal font and the starting place for Hek’s wild, rambling sermons.

  That bowl had once been at the center of controversy: was it an imitation artifact or the holy grail? To the faithful it was a sacred relic; to a doubting academic community it was simply an aberration. Time had rolled over those troubles like a river and all had been washed clean. The congregation still came to church, Hek still handled snakes and promised a fiery hell without God. A rage of contention had scoured the church. In the end Hek cared for his flock and they believed the word. That was enough.

  “Hek,” I began, unable to take my eyes off the golden floor, “I have something I want to ask you. It may be uncomfortable.”

  “If you want me to wait outside …” Andrews offered.

  “Nothing is hidden from God,” Hek said quietly.

  He took the aisle seat on the first bench. I sat opposite him, Andrews lingered farther back.

  “I’ve put two and two together,” I began.

  “Hope you got four,” Hek said evenly, eyes locked on mine.

  “And I’ve spoken with May.”

  I stopped, let that sink in for a moment. Silence was kind, softening every thought.

  “May,” he said at last, a sigh.

  “She gave you that piece of cloth in the graveyard the other day.”

  “She did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?” I leaned in, closer to him.

  “June don’t know about that part of my life,” he answered, dulcet tones. “She had enough suffering when I was gone; I always thought it best to leave out that part of my story. Seemed right: let the dead bury the dead.”

  “A thought which has occurred to me a lot lately,” I assured him.

  He let out a long sigh. “Good. I was afraid you had some notion to tell June, tell the deputy about them people up there.” He lowered his voice. “I still take a basket of food or such up yonder every now and again.”

  “I know.”

  “Always glad to see May’s still around. See her every year about this time.”

  “She’s migrating.” I saw her face in firelight. “Moving south from Chicago.”

  “But not to Florida,” he added,
a gleam in his eye.

  “I believe she has a little crush on you.”

  He blushed. “Shoot.”

  “Hek,” I said, my voice stronger, “you deliberately told me about seeing some mysterious apparition in the graveyard and taking that cloth from her. You wanted to make me curious, investigate, maybe find May and the others.”

  “I did.”

  “You didn’t want to tell me about them, but you wanted me to find them.”

  “Correct.”

  “Why?” I folded my hands, waited for an answer.

  “Truevine.” That was all.

  He stood.

  “Wait,” Andrews jumped in. “That’s not nearly enough.”

  “It’s all I care to say,” Hek said solidly. “Got to get on home. June’ll be waiting.”

  “You wanted me to find Truevine,” I said, following him as he strode toward the door.

  “And?”

  I stopped. He was testing me. Sometimes he, along with a handful of older men in town, wanted to prove they were just as smart as someone with a university education. Hek had done it to me many times before.

  “There’s something more you wanted me to find up there.” I started after him again.

  “Besides the hobo camp?” Andrews asked me.

  “Something to do with the murder,” I said louder.

  Hek was through the door without looking back.

  “Why doesn’t he just tell you?” Andrews fumed. “Why does everyone up here think that telling you anything is like a mortal sin?”

  “Frustrating, isn’t it,” I commiserated, smiling.

  “But it doesn’t matter to you,” he said, calming, “because he confirmed something in your mind. I know that look.” He shifted, sighing through clenched teeth. “You’re as bad as he is. You not going to tell me what you’re thinking, are you?”

  “I’m just thinking. It could be nothing. But I’ve decided we shouldn’t proceed any further without at least trying to speak to Skidmore. I suspect he might already be gone into the woods looking for Truevine again. Maybe that’s the reason no one was home at the Deveroe household.”

  I headed the truck for Skidmore’s office.

  Andrews glanced at his watch. “It’s after ten. You don’t think he’ll be in his office.”

  “No, but somebody may tell us where he went. We could catch up with him.” I looked up at the polished mirror of the sky. “Nice day for it.”

  My old green truck took the last corner of downhill road comfortably, slowed coming onto the blacktop. Everything seemed clearer than it had the day before, crisp air focused, a window wiped clean. The fields, tan sheaves of corn, golden rolls of hay, bore no resemblance to the dreary gray rags we’d seen in the rain.

  In town, the police station appeared empty. We pulled into a spot right in front of the door. There was a note. I climbed out; Andrews stayed put.

  “‘Dr. Devilin,’” I read aloud from the note written in Skidmore’s hand, “‘you might join me at the mortuary if you read this note before noon.’”

  He hadn’t signed it. I peeled the Scotch tape, crumpled the note, stuck it in the soft leather coat pocket.

  “Let’s go to the mortuary.”

  “Great.” Andrews slumped. “I suppose it’s too late for breakfast at Etta’s.”

  “She stops serving at eight.”

  “And luncheon is not served …” he began.

  “ … until eleven,” I finished.

  “Fine.” He gazed longingly at the dark diner’s window.

  The open sky seemed reflected everywhere, in the glass behind the word Etta’s, on the hood of the Ford; even the road glistened glass beads of sunlight.

  “The world looks different this morning.” I couldn’t keep the notion from lifting the corners of my mouth. “Town looks nice.”

  “What’s different,” Andrews mumbled, “is that we haven’t seen a living soul. Diner’s closed; police station’s closed; no one’s on the street. Body snatchers, that’s my guess.”

  I eased off the accelerator. He was right; there was no one around. Gil’s was vacant; the few cars parked around were empty and still. No one was walking. It would have been just as odd, of course, to see a flurry of activity in our quiet hamlet, but everything suddenly seemed as abandoned as the Newcomb mansion.

  “No one at Gil’s,” I told Andrews, nodding in its direction.

  He stared silently, eyes widening. He knew what it meant for that place to be empty: it was possible the world had come to an end and Andrews and I were the last to know.

  The mortuary was surrounded. A hundred cars, police sedans, state trooper vehicles, news vans, old Chevy station wagons, new Mercedes coups. We had to park off the road.

  “Mystery solved,” Andrews told me climbing out of the cab. “Everyone in the county is here.”

  “Looks like it.” I followed close behind him. “Must be some news story about the bodies, finally.”

  “But would everyone in town be here for that?” He tried to see around the house. Still no sight of anyone.

  “Absolutely,” I confirmed. “If there’s a big wreck on the highway, we all come out to look.”

  Without warning, the front door of the mortuary burst open and a crowd of reporters erupted onto the porch. The first people out were running to their cars and vans, some shouting into cell phones. The next wave included familiar faces, merchants and town people, moving slower, wagging heads.

  Behind them all Skid stood in the doorway.

  He watched the chaos, caught sight of us, beckoned.

  We moved through the throng, denying eye contact to anyone, onto the steps.

  “I guess your story broke,” I said, gazing out over the frenzy.

  “Just finished my news conference,” Skid affirmed. “Look at ’em go.”

  “This won’t do your election any harm,” Andrews said sagely.

  “Any publicity is good publicity,” Skid sighed, “is what Mr. Tineeta says. Come on in.”

  He turned and stepped over the threshold, into the relative darkness of the front room of the mortuary.

  Door closed, silence was cotton to the ear.

  “Body count,” Skid began with no ceremony, leading us toward the back rooms, “is up in the three hundreds now.”

  “Jesus,” Andrews said softly.

  “How could it be that no one knew about this?” I said as we came to the door I’d found locked from within.

  “That was one of the questions at my news conference,” Skid said, enjoying the phrase a little too much for my taste. “The fact is, people did know about it. Just not the right people.”

  “Deveroes,” Andrews stated flatly.

  “The people who live up at the cemetery,” I whispered, afraid someone might overhear.

  “They don’t live there,” Skid corrected at a normal volume. “They’re only passing through. That’s why we call them transients.”

  “Is that what we call them?” I gave him a sidelong glance, returned my attention to the locked door before us. “I probably should have told you this before. I didn’t just discover the trapdoor to that room; I broke into it. The one that’s …”

  “ … locked from the inside?” Skid finished calmly.

  “It wasn’t hard to get in,” I told him. “Got a knife from the kitchen, lifted the hook.”

  “So you know it don’t look a thing like the other lab.” He pointed to the cleanest room any of us had ever seen.

  “Right. So you’ve gotten in.”

  “Through the trapdoor in the cellar you told me about.” Skid leaned against the wall.

  “Would someone please tell me …” Andrews fumed.

  “Near as I can piece together,” Skid told us, his voice veering dangerously close to the official, “Harding Pinhurst was never a mortician.”

  Andrews and I exchanged a questioning look.

  “Didn’t have a license, never filed a death certificate, a single burial record, nothing.”
r />   “How is that possible?” Andrews folded his arms.

  “Harding’s Uncle Jackson made him take this job,” I guessed. “Set it all up.”

  Skid grinned. “Damn, you’re pretty good.”

  “Why do I know that name?” Andrews said to himself.

  “Rud said it,” I answered.

  “The man who made Rud take the caretaker’s job.” Andrews’s eyes lit. “He’s the godfather of Blue Mountain.”

  “Harding had him a few boys he’d hire to take the bodies out to the state woods,” Skidmore went on. “Guess who?”

  “Deveroes,” Andrews shot back.

  “They don’t do everything,” Skid chastised.

  “They shot our boy, here,” Andrews said, tilting his head my way. “That’s enough for me.”

  “Didn’t mean to,” Skid said.

  “The boys who found Harding’s body Saturday morning,” I interrupted, “are the ones he hired to dispose of his customers.”

  “Batting a thousand today,” Skid said, impressed.

  “Those drunken teenagers?” Andrews asked, trying to understand it.

  “So they could have known about the enmity between Harding and Able,” I went on.

  “Which is why they were so eager to accuse Able that day,” Andrews concluded. “Or did they even have something to do with the murder?”

  “Don’t know,” Skid said slowly. “But I do believe they were looking for a place to dump more bodies when they found Harding.”

  “Christ!” Andrews said. “That close to Dev’s house?”

  “How long has this been going on?” I asked Skid. “How many years has it been since Harding took over the mortuary?”

  “What’s that, five years?”

  “For that long he’s been throwing corpses into the woods,” Andrews said, “and no one’s known?”

  “I was saying that the transients up at the cemetery knew,” Skid allowed. “And, of course, the Deveroes, all of them.”

  “Truevine knew.” I stared at the wall beside me.

  “The bodies were all covered up with red clay,” Skid went on, “and pine straw, impossible to see—or smell. Until recently.”

  “Red clay has the additional benefit,” I declared, “of being acidic, increasing the decay rate of the bodies.”