Coven (27 page)

Tom’s head burst through the windshield;
inertia pulled his body down, and Wade saw something bounce across
the road.

Tom’s body fell back in the seat,
headless.

Holy holy holy
shit.
Wade hauled himself out, jarred,
dizzy. The Camaro was totaled, and so was Tom.

The Fiero had skidded to a halt, its driver
looking back.

“
You fuckhead drunk
motherfucker!” Wade bellowed.

“
Tough luck,” the driver
muttered. The Fiero sped away.

Jesus Jesus Jesus,
Wade thought, and blundered across the
road.
I just got Tom killed. Jesus Jesus
Jesus.

He looked forlornly down at Tom’s head,
which lay face-up in weeds. If Wade had been more careful, none of
this would’ve happened. He might’ve talked Tom out of his madness,
gotten him to a shrink, gotten him fixed up. Instead, he’d gotten
him killed.

Jesus Jesus Jesus. Look what I’ve done.

Wade glanced up. He thought he’d heard a
sound. A car door?

He peered across to the smashed Camaro.
Tom’s body was getting out of the car—without the benefit of a
head.

Wade stood limp, staring.

The headless corpse stood upright, even
closed the door behind it. One of its hands still gripped a Spaten
Oktoberfest. It faced Wade, or would be if it had a face. Wade’s
bladder voided then, as the headless corpse of Tom McGuire began to
confidently cross the road.

A horn shrieked, along with
tremors and a roar like thunder. Instantly a log loaded
eighteen wheeled Peterbilt barreled through the bend with no
chance of stopping for the perplexed thing that stood in the middle
of the road. The massive front grille mowed Tom’s body down with an
ear splitting
whap!,
then fed the crumpled corpse into its axles. The
body tumbled like a doll in a dryer and eventually became lodged by
its legs in the truck’s spare tire rack, trapped. Wade noticed
Vermont plates on the rig’s loaded trailer. Tom’s body was going
for a long ride. As quickly as the truck had appeared, it was
gone.

Wade remained limp at the shoulder, half in
shock and easily doubting his own sanity.

He looked down again at Tom’s head.

Its eyes flew open, and its lips spoke:
“Goddamn it, Wade! I told you to be careful around those
bends!”

Wade screamed, kicked the head into the
woods, and ran.

—

CHAPTER 21

White’s office was locked, which worked out
for the best. Lydia was determined to tell him nothing until she’d
acquired enough evidence on her own to make a case, and not just
this business with the hewer, but the break in at the clinic
and the Erblings’ dorm. Something was seriously wrong around here.
Lydia didn’t trust White. She didn’t trust anyone.

She’d passed the exhibits
many times, never taking any notice. Colonial relics weren’t
exactly a turn on for her. But it was a large, impressive
display, she saw now. She remembered glancing at it yesterday. Now
she roved the glass cases. Of course, she hardly expected to find a
hewer’s display space vacant. No one was that lucky. Musket
barrels, bent bayonets, and squashed powder horns—here they all
were, as Fredrick had promised. Tools and edged weapons occupied
the latter cases. Lots of trade axes, froes, and scythes. There
were bog scoops from Massachusetts Bay and glass pincers from
Williamsburg.
Big deal,
Lydia thought. Lots of swords too, and an entire
case of Conoy arrowheads and tomahawks. The last cast displayed
some hewers, but none looked as large as the kind she
sought.

One label read: “Hand hewer, Roanoke
Island, circa 1587.” But it was puny, like a Cub Scout hatchet.

Next: “Pole hewer, Jamestown, circa
1610.” Much bigger, but the plane of the blade was concaved, not
straight.

Here it is,
she thought. “Beam  hewer, St. Clement’s
Island, circa 1635.” But the hewer’s display space was…
vacant.

Lydia’s expression drooped. No one was this
lucky?

In seconds, she was in White’s office,
dialing the phone. Her excitement rushed her words. “Professor
Fredrick, this is Lydia Prentiss again. Who has access to the
archaeology exhibits?”

“
What?” Fredrick asked.
“Access? You mean keys?”

“
Yes, sir, I mean keys. Who
has the keys?”

“
Well, I do, of course.
It’s my department.”

“
Who else has keys to the
display cases? Janitors? Security?”

“
No,” Fredrick said. “I’m
afraid the only other person on campus with keys is the college
public relations executive.”

“
Who’s that?”

“
Winnifred
Saltenstall.”

Lydia gripped the phone so hard her knuckles
whitened. “What legitimate reason would she have for taking an
artifact?”

“
Well, I don’t know. If
she’d donated it to a museum, she certainly would’ve notified me
first. She may have loaned it to a historical society, or perhaps
to an archaeology journal. Why don’t you ask her
yourself?”

Good idea.
“Thank you, Professor.”

Lydia hurried out to the
cruiser. She blew down Campus Drive and screeched around the
Circle. Besser’s Cadillac De Ville was parked in the lot at the
sciences center, and so was Winnie’s Maserati 425. Lydia took the
staircase up, thinking,
She’s probably not
here,
but when she knocked, a voice invited
her in.

Mrs. Saltenstall sat behind an expensive but
jumbled desk, a double window at her back. No one else was with
her. One hand came from her lap to the blotter, sporting a black
ring, like onyx, while an unbecoming black amulet hung about her
neck. The amulet reminded Lydia of an inverted crucifix.

“
Pardon the interruption,
ma’am. I’d like to ask you…”

Was the woman stoned? Her eyes looked funny.
The ringed hand remained on the blotter, while the other she kept
below the desk. “Oh,” Winnie said in a sleepy drone. Was she hiding
her right hand deliberately? “You must be the new police
officer.”

“
Yes, ma’am. Lydia
Prentiss.”

She smiled blearily. “How can I help you,
Lydia Prentiss?”

See what twenty years of
pot smoking will do to you?
Lydia
thought.
Adult retardation.
“I have evidence that a serious crime was
committed with an implement on display in the college archaeology
exhibit.”

“
Implement?”

“
Yes, a colonial tool
called a beam hewer.”

“
Beam hewer?”

“
One appears to be missing
from the exhibit. It’s clear that the hewer was removed by someone
with a key.”

“
Key?”

What is this? Fucking
Benny Hill?
“Professor Fredrick directed me
to you. Other than him, you’re the only person on campus with a
key.”

Winnifred weirdly touched
her amulet. “Oh, a key to the
exhibit?”

No, asshole, a key to the
city.
“Yes, ma’am.”

“
Have a seat. Make yourself
comfortable.”

Lydia did, hard pressed not to
frown.

“
You’re a very attractive
woman,” Winnifred said inexplicably. She leaned back, parting her
feet. “Are you married?”

“
No. But back to the
exhibit keys—”

“
Are you bi? I mean, if you
don’t mind my asking?”

Did she just say what I
think she said?
Lydia reflected. The arm of
the woman’s hidden hand seemed to be moving lightly.

“
Please don’t be offended,
but I find you very desirable. It’s not healthy to suppress our
natural urges. If you’re into it—”

This is too much! I came
in here asking about a fucking beam hewer, and she wants to
make out with me.
“I’m not into it,” Lydia
said. “I only want to know who took the—” But then she saw
something under the desk: a pair of frilled panties.

It was now obvious what Winnifred was doing
with her hidden hand. Lydia got up to leave, incredulous.

“
Don’t go yet,” Winnie
moaned. “I’ll tell you in a minute…”

She placed her feet on the desk edge and
brought the ringed hand to her breast. The other hand remained
buried beneath her dress.

Agape now, Lydia could only stand and
stare.

“
I’m coming now,” Winnifred
breathed. Her body tensed in the big chair, and she released a
long, whining moan, flush-faced.

I have seen everything
now,
Lydia concluded.

Winnifred’s body went lax. She smiled lazily
and put her feet back down. “That was nice,” she said.

“
I’m sure it
was.”

“
You want to know about the
hewer.”

“
Lady, after what I just
saw, I don’t give a flying fuck about the hewer. You ought to see a
psychiatrist.”

Winnifred licked her fingers. “I took the
hewer,” she said.

“
What?”

“
You’re very efficient. Who
would think something that old could be traced? How did you do
it?”

Lydia stalled. “Are you about to confess to
murder?”

“
Oh, no. But I did take the
hewer.”

“
Winnie, you idiot!” a
man’s voice interrupted. “Can’t you
ever
control yourself? The Supremate
will be furious!”

Professor Dudley Besser was
standing at the far wall. But how could he have entered without
Lydia seeing? It was
impossible.

“
Look at the trouble you’ve
caused,” he went on.

“
She knew about the hewer,
Dudley. She traced it to me.”

Besser turned to Lydia directly. “You’ve
made quite a problem for yourself, I’m afraid. Why couldn’t you
leave us alone?”

Lydia decided it was time
to yell. “You’re both out of your minds! What are you talking
about? This is
crazy!”

“
I can see how it would
seem so,” Besser said. “It’s too complex for you to understand…
Yes, Winnifred took the hewer, but she wasn’t the one who killed
Mr. Sladder.”

Lydia’s eyes widened.

“
It was me,” Besser
said.

Winnifred smiled. Lydia blinked. Suddenly
Besser had somehow produced the very weapon Lydia sought.

“
The beam hewer,” she
whispered.

He held it shoulder to hip. It was huge, a
five foot plus handle, and a weirdly shaped blade. The
straight twelve inch cutting edge gleamed like a sliver of
sun.

Lydia had no time to draw her gun. Besser
heaved forward—

She jerked and fell. The descending hewer
demolished the chair. Lydia half crawled, half jumped into the
hall.

“
Great going, you fat ass!”
Winnie’s voice complained.

“
Everybody calls me fat!
I’m not fat!”

“
You’re a blimp, Dudley. A
fat, cumbersome
blimp!”

Now Lydia was ready. Down on one knee, she
aimed her revolver at the open door. She breathed thinly, waiting
for Besser to emerge with the hewer.

Come on, you fat bastard. Come to Lydia.

She waited like that for quite some
time.

Only silence now from the office. Did they
plan to wait in there forever? If they would not come to her, Lydia
would go to them.

She three pointed through the doorway,
gun in lead. Besser and Winnifred Saltenstall were gone. So was the
hewer.

Impossible.

Where could they have gone? There was no
exit.

Window,
she thought.
They took
the ledge to the next office.

She approached the window but soon lowered
her gun with a slow curse on her lips. The window was secured by
brass latches: locked from the inside.

««—»»

Wade drove the Vette zombie eyed to the
dorm, after walking all the way back to the sciences center. If he
reported the wreck to White, what would he say? Tom’s head got cut
off, and his body got out of the car? That probably wouldn’t wash.
White would have him committed. And calling Dad would be worse.

But he had to tell someone.

He ran down the hall to his room. He would
call Lydia, tell her everything. If he couldn’t tell her, who could
he tell? But when he bulled into the room, Lydia jumped up. “Where
have you been, goddamn it? You weren’t at work! I’ve been waiting
hours!”

“
I’ve had a bad day,” he
said.

“
You’ve
had a bad day! Shit!” An ashtray clogged with
butts sat on the bed, next to three pistols and a box of
bullets.

Next, inexplicably, she was hugging him as
tightly as she could. “Oh, Wade, something crazy happened to me
today!”

He sat her down on the bed, got himself an
Adams, and said, “You tell your crazy story first. Then I’ll tell
mine.”

««—»»

Wade didn’t know what to
make of her frantic recital. It was crazy, but he believed her. As
for his own crazy story, the only thing he could do was show her.
This time he drove around the bends more carefully, on the advice
of a dead friend. Lydia’s lap was full of guns. “And I can’t tell
White,” she was saying. “He’d never believe two high faculty
members tried to kill me with a
beam hewer.
He’d have me
committed.”