Deadly Harvest (16 page)

Around him, half-hidden by mist, women and girls cowered. They were naked but tastefully painted, ducking down and covered by their long streaming hair, arms chastely crossed over their breasts. They, too, wore headdresses of fall leaves.

Another painting, this one next to the display, also depicted the Harvest Man in his dark cape and crown of leaves, this time standing above a lone young woman, who was kneeling down as if in supplication. The Harvest Man carried a scythe, and there was something ominous about the scene. The harvest meant plenty for the people, but the painting implied that the Harvest Man demanded blood in exchange for the bounty of the fields. It was an old belief, common all through pagan history.

Rowenna stopped to read one of the explanatory signs. Winters in the late 1720s had been harsh, and many families hadn't been able to feed all their children. Some of those starving young people had “disappeared,” supporting the belief that the Harvest Man came at night and took his due.

She moved on, rubbing her arms for warmth, as if the temperature had actually dropped while she was there.

The mannequins in the next room were actually wax figures modeled on real people—real murderers, each as infamous in his own way as the Harvest Man.

The first wore a steel breastplate with a helmet circa the mid-1700s. He was Andrew Cunningham, who'd been tried and found guilty of the murder and rape of several young women in the Colonies, but he'd disappeared before his execution. Beside him was another wax figure—with eerily realistic eyes—dressed as one of Roger's Raiders, a British unit of the Revolutionary War. His name was Victor Milton, and he had also been suspected of murder—and never apprehended. Then again, he had been fighting for the British. Perhaps the hatred of the people had labeled him a murderer, just as hatred, greed and jealousy had once made people cry “Witch!”

There were two more figures in the room. The first wore a Union officer's navy dress coat. He was David Fine, and when his unit had left the area, the bodies of three young women had been discovered decaying in the woods. The last figure was dressed in a suit that was nearly contemporary. His name was Hank Brisbin, and he had gone to the gallows in the 1920s. Dying, he had announced that he would live forever, that he had already lived for hundreds of years and would never die.

The hangman's noose had silenced his words.

“You're afraid it's happening again, aren't you?”

Rowenna had been so engrossed in the figures that she gasped at the sound of the voice and jumped, her heart thundering.

“Sorry! Oh, Rowenna, I'm so sorry!”

It was only her friend Daniel.

“Dan! You can't sneak up on people like that.”

He looked so distressed that she quickly laughed and said, “
I'm
sorry.” She hurried over to give him a quick hug. “I'm just…edgy. I guess the entire community is edgy.”

He smiled. “I swear, I didn't mean to sneak up on you.”

She laughed. “I was just…thinking.”

“Yeah. Scary, huh?” Daniel said, and let out a soft sigh. “They still don't know who she was, huh?”

“Not that I've heard,” Rowenna told him.

He shook his head. “It's so terrible. I guess at least for now we can be thankful that she wasn't Mary Johnstone.”

“You met Mary, huh?” Rowenna said.

He shook his head sadly. “Oh, yeah. I told them they should get their fortunes told—I even told them I thought Damien was good—and to make sure they saw the cemetery.”

“Dan!” Rowenna said. “You can't blame yourself.”

“I'm not. I don't. It's just…I keep trying to remember that day. They were both so nice, you know? They didn't walk in and ask if we had any bones from the witches' graves or pieces of bark from the hanging tree, or act…fucking
ghoulish,
the way so many people do on Halloween. Sorry.”

“It's all right—I've heard the word before,” she said.

“I just feel so bad. I keep thinking there has to be something….” His voice trailed away. “So Junie said you're here to use the library.”

“I'm just trying to find out more about the past, about the Harvest Man.”

A quizzical smile crossed his features. “The past? You think there really was a Harvest Man and now he's been awakened again?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly. Too quickly? she wondered. Who was she trying to convince?

“Then…?”

“I'm wondering if there's a psycho out there who
thinks
he's the Harvest Man. I mean, look at your exhibit. This guy—” she pointed to the most recent of the suspected murderers in the gallery “—Hank Brisbin. He died claiming that he'd live forever.”

Daniel laughed. “Yeah—and he choked on his words.”

“But he
thought
he was more than human. The world is full of nutcases.” She looked away from Brisbin as if she couldn't bear the sight of him anymore. “Anyway, it was just an idea.”

“Who knows? Maybe someone out there
is
crazy.” Daniel broke off and grimaced. “
Of course
whoever killed that woman is crazy. But maybe he's crazy like a fox. You know, trying to get away with murder—maybe get rid of his wife or girlfriend by making it look like some kind of weird ritual, so he wouldn't be suspected.”

“That's a stretch,” Rowenna told him.

“I just don't think this was someone trying to get away with killing his wife or his girlfriend.”

“Why not?”

“Mary Johnstone. She's still missing.”

“Okay, but maybe—just maybe—she's missing for another reason.”

“You're suggesting that she has disappeared on purpose, trying to get even with her husband for cheating on her?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It's not unheard of.”

Rowenna shook her head. “Mary's the wife of a cop—she knows she'd face charges.”

“For what? She's an adult. She can disappear if she wants to.”

“I'm pretty sure they could find something to charge her with—make her repay the cost of the investigation or something—but that's not the point. Her purse and her phone were found in the graveyard. All her credit cards, her ATM card and her money,” Rowenna said. “I never met her, but from what I understand, she loved her husband and she had a fabulous career as a dancer. Why would she run away?”

“You're probably right. I just hope they find her before…Well, I just hope they find her safe and sound.”

“I do, too.”

Dan grinned suddenly. “So what's going on with you and this new guy I'm hearing about?”

She blushed. She hadn't been expecting the question, especially in the middle of a far more serious conversation.

“Um, well, I worked with him in New Orleans. He's a private investigator.”

“Were you on a case with him?” Daniel asked, his eyes brightening.

“No, no. I just went on a radio talk show with him. We did one of those point-counterpoint things. He was there to raise funds for a children's home, a place for orphans and abused kids, so the show was a way to draw attention to the cause. People love to listen to debates, especially when they get a little heated.”

Daniel laughed. “So you argued with the guy by day and got cozy by night?”

“Something like that,” she said, blushing again.

“And Joe is okay with this?” he asked.

“Joe has been after me to have a life again for a long time,” she told him.

“Still, it has to hurt him some, don't you think?”

“I think that Joe is my friend, and that I'm not going to avoid him. And, I'll admit, I was actually more worried about the fact that he thinks private investigators are a pain in the ass more often than they're useful. But he and Jeremy seem to be doing all right together.”

“Well, good. I'm happy for you. It's nice to know things are working out for you.”

“We're not engaged or anything. We're seeing each other, that's all. I don't know where we'll go from here.”

“Do any of us really know where we're going?” he asked with a philosophical shrug.

She laughed. “I do, at least right now. To the library. Want to join me?”

“Absolutely. Come on through.”

They passed through several more exhibit rooms dedicated to the Revolutionary War era, the War of 1812 and the days of the whalers and the great sailing vessels. There was a room filled with pirate fact and fiction, and another focused on Laurie Cabot, who had brought not just modern-day wicca to Salem but also the tourist boom that was now so crucial to the area's economy.

At last they reached the library, where only teachers, professors and serious students were allowed. It was Daniel's favorite part of the museum, Rowenna knew. He liked to let the college students work with the exhibits—they were all more artistic than he was, he'd once told her—but the library was his domain. He was a voracious reader, and he kept a bookcase here of his personal books for whenever he had a spare moment, apart from the scholarly works, and antique books and manuscripts, the museum had bought or that had been donated by local residents.

She found herself glancing through his personal collection, thinking she might borrow something to read later, when she had finished with all her stops for the day.

She wasn't going back to Jeremy's rental house without something to keep her mind off things.

“You love books,” she said aloud.

“Yeah, anything,” he agreed cheerfully.

He was telling the truth. He had two shelves of classics, including Poe, Shakespeare, Dickens, Defoe and more. Contemporary fiction came next, with alphabetically arranged sections devoted to fantasy and science fiction, mysteries and thrillers, and horror. She was a little startled to see that he also had a collection of romance and erotica.

“Don't laugh,” he said.

She didn't laugh, but she couldn't help but smile. “Hey, a good book is a good book.”

“I read for knowledge as well as entertainment.” He grinned. “I'll have you know my knowledge of so-called
women's
fiction makes me very popular with women when I go out at night. And I, unlike those macho types who look down their noses at my choice in reading material, know what women are looking for in the bedroom.”

“Good for you,” Rowenna said cheerfully, and then her smile faded as she remembered the corpse she had found and the fact that Mary Johnstone was still missing. “I feel guilty for having fun, you know?” she asked him.

“Yeah, I know,” Daniel said, his voice husky. He shook his head in frustration. “I really wish I could help.”

“Well, let's see what we can find,” Rowenna said. “Dare I hope there's a section on the Harvest Man?”

“Are you kidding?” he asked. “I have a section for everything.”

“You're beyond anal,” she accused him.

“You bet,” he told her with a grin. “To your left, behind the desk, in the glass enclosed case. I'll even trust you with one of our real treasures. It was written by a man named Ethan Forrester in 1730.”

“Okay, let's go by era, then,” she said as he reverently handed her the book. She took it with the same respect.

“No coffee or anything else to eat or drink while we're in here,” he told her gravely.

“I wouldn't think of it,” she assured him.

They read in silence for a while. Daniel finished with one book, frowned and picked up another.

Rowenna immersed herself in Ethan Forrester's
The Way of the Devil
.

Forrester had probably been considered a forward thinker for his day. Of course, he had had the advantage of hindsight. He could look back on the witchcraft hysteria as a man who had been a child at the time of the executions and had seen what happened firsthand, though through a child's eyes.

He wrote about the hardships in Salem at the time the hysteria began, the severe cold of the winter, and the complete and utter boredom the children of the time experienced. The society was rigid, with scarcely room to breathe. Girls were expected to do their chores and pray.

Forrester's book was rambling, but it made for intriguing reading. He spoke of people in a way that made them very real, noting that Giles Corey—a man who was pressed to death under heavy stones when he refused to enter a plea of guilty
or
innocent—had testified against his own wife, who had been executed. He wrote about John Proctor, who gave his servant girl, Mercy Warren, a good thrashing, which made her lose all sense of hysteria—until the other girls got hold of her and she once again cried “Witch!” against her neighbors.

Then, he wrote about the aftermath, how the shameful didn't end so much with a bang as with a whimper. Massachusetts had been a British colony at the time, and the powers that be had looked to the mother country for guidance. In those days, correspondence moved slowly, with questions and their subsequent answers having to cross the Atlantic by boat. And just because the governor's wife had been accused, he hadn't been able to stop the whole frenzy with a single word. But the executions had ended at last, though some of the convicted had continued to wither away in jail, until the trials slowly became an uncomfortable topic of conversation. Eventually, as the world moved into another century, many began to regret their mistakes.