20-Judgement
Officially, Catherine Meara died of natural causes, a burst blood vessel in the brain, most likely a result of her trip into the sinkhole. Experts explained that the entire area around the prison had once been coal mining country. Coal mining caused the sinkhole that pulled Catherine Meara into the ground, where she died of an aneurism caused by the shock and distress of the situation. It took them an entire day to pull her body from the ground. An entire day for me to sit, empty and hollow, on the now familiar prison steps and watch the ravens fly away, one by one.
I was allowed to read a copy of the coroner’s report. I think he felt sorry for me. I didn’t need stitches on my face where Catherine’s Sun card cut me, but the bruised and swollen areas of my face and body helped foster the image of a brutal beating victim. I was silent about the true events of that night and morning at Pennsylvania State Penitentiary. I claimed it was too confused and blurred for me to remember, citing emotional trauma as a contributing factor. The last part was even true. I remembered watching them bring Brad’s body out on a stretcher, covered with a white sheet, stained with blood. His hand peeked through the side closest to me and I had the overwhelming urge to touch it as it went by me. I didn’t. Brad wasn’t in there anymore, his energy gone on to something or somewhere else. I felt it lingering close by, and was afraid for him.
The notation of Catherine’s marks on her body in the coroner’s report did not include the raven tattoos flying across her back from shoulder to shoulder. I knew why they were gone. The first one showed up on my shoulder, upon her death, and I knew its friends would follow shortly behind it.
I went home to the Philly Herald. Rick put me on Entertainment and I gladly filled my little sections of text with silly nothings and meaningless prattle. The inane nature of it all soothed me. I did not sleep at night, any more. I slept in the day time and showed up at the office around five each evening. Rick even gave me a raise, and sometimes stayed behind after hours to have a drink and try to cheer me up. He was a good man.
It was from him that I learned more about the aftermath of the events at the prison. After Catherine’s death, Dayne Yoakum and another County Sherriff named Sam Johnson had put their heads, and information, together and came up with a list of possible bodies and missing persons. All of them fit the descriptions of her victims in Brad’s notes, found on his desk and on his body at the coroner’s office.
I claimed my recordings were lost and did not elaborate on the information they located, but they didn’t need me. The two lovers in Clinton County were never found, but James White was located in Luzerne County, as was the body of Melissa Anselme in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Williamsport. The pieces of her body, that is. They’d searched over thirty such buildings before finding what was left of her, bones and bits of flesh further ravaged by time, rats, and insects.
Edward Garretty was finally located as well, by backpackers trying to find themselves in the wilderness. When they lost track of their supply caches and became lost in the woods, they viewed the appearance of a seemingly abandoned cabin as manna from heaven. They changed their minds when they found Mr. Garretty’s body strapped to the bed, mouth open in a rictus of eternal screaming. When they found civilization, they pointed local police in Tioga County to the general direction of the cabin so he could receive a proper burial.
Finnaeus Parsons, the history guy, was found in his charred home but police never knew who’d set the fire until they were contacted by Sheriffs Johnson and Yoakum in connection with Catherine Meara. Autopsy reports revealed Mr. Parsons had been tortured extensively before being doused with accelerant and set on fire. The report also revealed he was still alive before the flames finally consumed him. Catherine had lied about that one.
The bodies of the infant, Mary the Hanged Man victim, and the two hunters in Sugarcreek still had not been found but some names were connected to the disappearances. Jules and Verne Fields, aged forty, were unrecoverable, their house incinerated so completely that only their teeth and bits of bone remained to identify them. Police assumed their death was accidental, a leaking gas line or some such thing, but reopened the case once contacted by Yoakum.
The blonde in the port-a-potty was recovered and found to be a missing woman from a good home in Huntingdon County. Wendy Rossman, mother of two and wife to Chet Rossman, went missing in early August of 2012. After dropping her kids off at school, she simply vanished, taking nothing with her as far as her husband could tell. No one had the heart to tell him she’d been dressed like a hooker and off to find adventure when she met Catherine Meara instead. Sherriff Johnson delivered the news to him personally, holding the big man like a baby when he cried.
The death of Damien Edwards was well documented, but no one could figure out how he’d managed to break through those giant plate glass windows, until the events at the prison. Those of us who saw what Catherine was capable of kept it to ourselves but after Brad’s death, and the death of the other officers, no one doubted she’d killed Damien somehow as well.
Imogene Meara’s death had been ruled an accident. An old woman, living alone, drowning in the bathtub...it was not far-fetched. Her death is now attributed to the Raven Witch Killer as well. Catherine killed where she had been given life, a roof over her head, and a chance to become something.
Officer Allan DeGroot, aged thirty-six had given his life to protect mine. And of course, so did Officer Bradley Shaw. I tried not to think about him too much. I tried.
I didn’t eat much, and most of what I did eat came back up. My dreams were empty.
It wasn’t until exactly seventeen days after the incident in the prison that the first raven showed up on the window ledge of my apartment, though its image was imbedded in the flesh on my back and shoulders. Seventeen times, of course. We stared at each other, but neither of us said anything. The bird was carrying the Judgment card in its ebony beak. The bird let the card fall, but it was picked up by the wind and floated away in a complicated dance, where some person may have found it on a sidewalk, picked it up, and never known its true significance. I’d made my Judgment back at the prison.
I went to a Tarot card reader, once, out of curiosity. The woman tried too hard to be ‘New Age’, wearing her version of hippie clothes and her house reeked of incense. When I sat down and she began to read my cards, she grew more and more distressed as the session stretched on. She finally refused to read for me, and would say no more. I paid her anyway.
I spent hours in the dark switching the lamp on and off with my power, which I no longer hid from. I hoped the lamplight would chase away the demons in the shadows. I spent many hours conjuring Brad’s image from trails of energy only to have them to dissipate and leave me feeling desolate once again.
I would’ve continued on this way for some time had I not finally figured out what the ravens wanted of me and why I felt as though I was not completely alone in spite of the absence of the man I’d pledged my soul to. Through the fog of my depression there was a voice in the darkness that gave me strength.
The next day, there were two ravens. And then three. And so on. We spent many hours silently contemplating each other. I began to draw them, investing in sketch pads and expensive charcoal pencils. I grew intimately familiar with the anatomy of ravens, researching them constantly, from their wedge shaped tail feathers to their shaggy neck feathers. I collected their elongated primary feathers from the ledge outside my window and glued them to my drawings.
Every day, I slept, ate, vomited, and drew the ravens. I dreamed nothing. I began hanging the drawings on my walls until they were covered with endless images of ravens. I no longer left the house, having food delivered and emailing Rick my pieces for the paper.
Always, there were ravens out on the window ledge, endlessly watching me. One of them was larger than the others. It stayed through night and day, never taking any sustenance that I saw. I spent every moment obsessing about them, wondering if they were hers, come to finish m
e as she’d intended. Or worse, maybe they were mine, now.
Then I found out why they were really there.
21-The World
The story is told, finally. That was the last piece of what was required of me and the weight upon my shoulders will leave...eventually. I have drawn the World card, and it has come to signal the end.
The ravens have gone. All but the largest one, who still visits. That one is mine.
I’ve lost so much already. I will not sacrifice the child in my womb on the altar of Catherine’s evil legacy.
As I will it, so mote it be.
About the Author:
Chrystal (Christina) Vaughan lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family. When she is not writing, she likes to impart her love for the written word to others and is a voracious reader.
“A Conspiracy of Ravens” is Mrs. Vaughan’s third novel; other books from this author include “Sideshow” and “Dead in the Water” (a Solstice Publishing title). Both are available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
Comments can be directed to the author at [email protected] or visit her on Facebook at:
https://www.facebook.com/chrystalwrites
Other methods of contact include Twitter (@TheChrystalShip), or visit her blog at www.mermaidsandmayhem.blogspot.com for previews and excerpts from upcoming books!
Acknowledgements:
I dedicated this book to my husband, and here’s why: for putting up with the light on in bed through all hours of the night while I scribbled, for accepting answers half murmured in response to questions not fully heard, and for letting me just be me, a crazy writer.
I’d also like to acknowledge my children, one of whom listened to bits of plot until she had to plug her ears and say, “No no no! I’m going to read this one, don’t tell me anymore!” and also crafted the amazing cover; the other child reminded me of my real job by saying, “Mom, stop writing, it’s time to snuggle.”
A big thanks to my proofreader, mother, and cheerleader, Dee Teaford; my beta reader and cheerleader, Annette Williams; and to my test readers and cheerleaders Dayna Clark, Heather Tramp, Chris Rajnus, Laura Nolte, Gianna Row and Kymri Butcher. (Kymri, I’m sorry the serial killer in this book looked like you...it was an accident I swear!). Thanks to my editor Sherry Derr-Wille and my editor-in-chief KC Sprayberry, and my Solstice family for their support.
I’d like to thank all my family and friends who read my books and support my writing. You all know who you are.
Finally, thanks to my students. They know why.
Excerpt from Straw Houses, the sequel to Sideshow, coming in the Fall of 2014!
Chapter One
Hailey Ames shook her bobbed length black hair out of her eyes and sighed with exasperation. The mane of the African lion she was brushing was hopelessly tangled, and she eyed him with a suspicious expression. Hearing her mental voice chastise him for neglecting to groom in even some small way, the massive animal began to wheedle imploringly at her. “It wasn’t my fault, Hailey,” he said, his mental signature managing to sound completely wounded. “Aphrodite promised she would help me…”
“You great lazy thing!” she said out loud, startling her companion, a tall, slender young man of about sixteen who was tentatively holding several grooming items in his scarred hand and awaiting her instruction. Tito Fratelli had been found wandering in the Florida swamp, nearly delirious and dehydrated after he attempted to run away a few years ago. Now, he followed Hailey like a silent shadow, quietly hanging on her every word and gesture.
“Not you, Tito,” she assured him. Turning back to the task at hand, she resumed chiding the lion mentally. “It is NOT the job of the lioness to groom you! She only does that when she’s pleased with you and clearly, you have some making up to do.”
Tangles finally removed, Hailey ran her hands down the smooth, coarse fur of his back and he purred like a house cat. His lioness, Aphrodite, lay nonchalantly in the shade a few feet away inside the menagerie tent emblazoned with the title of the ‘Greatest Show on Earth: Daedalus Figsby’s Labrythian Enchantments’.
Turning her attention to the handsome young man waiting silently beside her, Hailey thanked him for his help and returned the grooming items to their carrying case. The lions had been the last of the animals that required her attention today. Her adopted father, Bamidele Jones, was working with some of the ring stock horses and would attend to them this afternoon after practice was over. She smiled fondly to herself, imagining the scene she’d witnessed many times. Her Papa’s nearly eight feet in height towering over the pureblood Andalusian horses as they cantered around the practice ring like so many carousel horses. Calliope Schreiber, the circus music director and equestrienne would likely be there as well, adding a few bits of flash to her liberty act with the horses.
In many parts of the world, it would be ill advised to let massive lions roam free, but the circus was currently wintering at the enormous compound owned by the Ringmaster’s oldest friend, Coco, and therefore safe from the misunderstandings of the ‘normal’ world. The circus had wintered here every year that Hailey could remember, beginning with her first year on the show and now into her fifth year as a seasoned circus performer. Hailey’s mind wandered back to that horrible season when the Pale Man came and killed her very best friend, her dog Charlie. A small, sad smile played around her lips as she recalled some of the best times they’d spent together. She’d been only nine years old then, but lived the lifetime of two adults by the time the Pale Man killed Charlie. Tito still blamed himself for the role he played in bringing the Pale Man to the circus grounds, Hailey knew, even though her adopted Uncle Fig and Aunt Florica had told him over and over that he had been a child, used by his evil clown father, but Tito clung resolutely to his opinion. Having never known love or human kindness when his father was alive, Tito was suspicious of people and trusted the words of no one, except Hailey. He watched her now, as he always did, with disconcerting intent.
Not all of the circus family trusted Tito’s innocence like Fig and Florica. Fig’s best friend Coco didn’t trust the boy and watched him watch Hailey, just in case. He remembered the gypsy’s vision from Hailey’s childhood, the one following the death of the Pale Man:
Take care the girl with the broken heart
Whose loyal spirit did depart:
Her tears did fall
And cast a pall
Where the pale man’s shadow dies
Remember the blood that spills
From the boy who kills
Heals the heart that tells no lies
He believed the vision was related to Tito, and knew the boy’s power was a dangerous one. Coco was a grizzled sort of fellow, given to speaking in riddles and who, Hailey suspected, was just like the rest of the circus: more unusual than he appeared to be. He spoke a great deal of his army days, leading warriors to battles that no one living remembered, and of the times he and Fig traveled around Greece, Italy, Spain and beyond, back when it was just the two of them juggling for coins. The show had certainly come a long way, over the centuries. He’d also encountered a great many dangers which seemed harmless, on appearances.
There was not much Tito could have done to Hailey, even if he had wanted to, however. Hailey’s other shadow released itself from the inner sanctum of the menagerie tent and stalked behind her as she headed out toward the caravan city parked out behind the plantation house, a massive form nearly dwarfing her slender frame. Shardul, the Bengal tiger, padded silently along behind the girl, and Tito Fratelli took care to tread very lightly where Shardul was concerned. Her adopted father, Bam, called the animal ‘alsasa’, which meant ‘porcupine’ in his native African tribal language, to match the tiger’s prickly personality. He and Fig went to India on an acquisition expedition many years before Hailey arrived at the circus, and found him as a cub, wounded and hissing like a nest of snakes. The cub had already killed several children and wounded grown men and women, a massive and powerful creature even at a very y
oung age. Fig darted the tiger with a sleeping aid, and Bam laid his enormous, healing hands on the glorious striped body of the tiger. His wounds magically reknit themselves, and his breathing evened out into normal sleeping patterns. As a service to the Indian village whom the tiger terrorized, they’d promised to dispose of the animal but instead pressed him into service in the circus. Shardul had never forgiven either man for their deceit and had no gratitude for their intervention. It was not until Hailey arrived, with her special ability to speak to animals, a gift Fig had dubbed ‘anthropomorphizes’, that the tiger ceased attempting to murder everyone and everything that came near his cage.
Now, he followed her as docilely as any dog, only occasionally rumbling very deep and low in his chest whenever he felt the boy was getting to close to her. He possessed, like all of his kind, a very keen sense of smell and to him, Tito Fratelli smelled like fire and brimstone. As Tito’s ability was pyrokinesis, the tiger was not wrong. He store bore the scars of his unsuccessful attempt to end his life. Tito had set himself on fire the same day the Pale Man killed Charlie. Tito’s scars weren’t too bad, all things considered. His hands suffered the least, but his back and chest were a network of melted flesh. Some very light scarring could be seen creeping up the sides of his neck when he was wearing street clothes, but fortunately his ring costume covered him from head to toe. The worst of his scars were on the inside, where no one could heal them but Tito. Fig told Hailey it would come in time.
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