Devil's Night (29 page)

“So she showed you the remains of a woman executed for witchcraft,” Kat said. “How did that make you feel?”

“Are you asking me if I was angry?” Connor replied.

“Yes. Were you?”

“Of course. If Rebecca Bradford really was a witch, then she was killed for practicing something that’s completely harmless. If she wasn’t, then she was killed for no reason at all. So were the other women in her family. In my mind, five innocent women died. Considering that, yes, it made me extremely angry.”

“Angry enough to want to get revenge on the town where it happened?”

Connor, remaining cool in the face of the accusation, asked, “Do you consider yourself to be a Christian?”

Kat nodded, although she was more of a nonpracticing, take-everything-the-Bible-says-with-a-grain-of-salt one.

“So you’re familiar with the Ten Commandments then.”

“I am,” Kat said. “‘Thou shall not kill’ is a big one around these parts.”

“Witches have something similar to that. Our main commandment is ‘Do what you will, but harm none, for what you do comes back thrice.’”

“Sounds simple enough,” Kat replied. “What about the casting-spells part? Doesn’t that harm people?”

Connor sighed, his expression wavering between utter disdain and genuine sympathy that she could be so uninformed.

“You don’t know anything about witchcraft, do you?”

“I don’t.” Kat really didn’t mind that fact. She considered it to be on the same level as Scientology or the idiots who followed the Reverend Moon. It was a cult. Nothing more. “Is that the same thing as being a Wiccan?”

“It is,” Connor said. “Wiccan actually means ‘wise one.’ And those of us who are practicing witches believe in harmony with nature and all its living things. We don’t dance naked under a full moon. We don’t turn people into toads. And we certainly don’t worship the devil.”

“Then why did you paint a satanic symbol on the side of the museum?”

“The pentagram?” Connor said. “That’s not satanic.”

“It sure as hell looks that way.”

“It’s Wiccan,” Connor explained. “The five points represent the cycle of life. The top point represents a higher power. The other points represent the four elements—earth, air, water, and fire. All of them are balanced within the circle, the same way there is balance within each person. That balance also makes it a symbol of protection against evil.”

Kat listened carefully, trying to understand. “So you spray-painted the pentagram in an effort to protect the museum?”

“Yes,” Connor said. “With Constance’s permission. She even provided me with the paint.”

“Constance was worried about the museum?”

“Yes. And her own safety as well.”

Kat remembered her conversation with Father Ron. He had mentioned that Constance had seemed paranoid and frightened in the past few days. Maybe she had had good reason to be. Or maybe Connor was simply lying.

“She was nervous,” he told Kat. “Visibly shaking. Always looking to the door, as if someone might burst in at any moment. When I asked her what was wrong, she said that someone else knew about her search for Rebecca Bradford. Someone who didn’t want the incident to become public knowledge.”

“Did she mention any names?”

She had not. According to Connor, Constance had simply told him that she had received word earlier the same night that someone knew about Rebecca and Constance’s research.

“She was worried about something bad happening to the museum or to herself,” he said. “So when I left the museum around midnight, I painted the pentagram on the wall. Quite honestly, it doesn’t do much good. But I figured it might help, it being close to Samhain.”

Kat was getting a headache. “Wait. Sam
what
?”

“Samhain. It’s the Wiccan New Year. It takes place on the last day of October. It’s the time of year when the veil between the spirit world is the thinnest, letting us get closer to our ancestors and calling upon them to stand with us in the new year.”

“Halloween, in other words.”

“Not really,” Connor said, “although modern Halloween has co-opted many of its traditions. Samhain is actually Celtic. It marks the transition between the lighter half of the year and the darker half. Centuries ago, they used to celebrate it with bonfires. They thought the flames were cleansing.”

Kat’s heart stopped when she heard that. Whoever was starting the fires around Perry Hollow had picked an ironic time to do it. Unless he knew all about Samhain and its meaning. Instead of punishing the town for its sins, Kat wondered if the arsonist was actually trying to cleanse it.

“Why were you still in town when the fire was started at the museum?” she asked Connor. “I bumped into you on the street.”

“I remember. I stayed because I didn’t want to leave the town unprotected. Once I saw the museum was on fire and then heard that Constance had been found dead inside, I knew that she was right. Someone really is trying to stop people from learning about Rebecca Bradford.”

“Which again begs the question why you ran away from the police instead of stopping and telling us all you knew.”

It was pretty much the same question she had asked fifteen minutes ago. The conversation had come full circle, back to the very beginning. If it was in the shape of a pentagram, Kat’s point on the star would have represented impatience.

“I’m not stupid,” Connor said. “I knew I was a suspect. But while you were protecting the town, I thought I could help out in my own special way.”

“More pentagrams?”

Connor wasn’t amused. Which was fine by Kat. She hadn’t intended it to be amusing.

“No,” he said. “With this.”

He reached into his coat pocket. It was hard with the handcuffs, but he managed to snag something between his index and middle fingers. As he lifted his hands to the table, Kat saw a small Ziploc bag squeezed between them. Inside the bag were dried stems, leaves, and the brown, brittle buds of what had once been a flower.

“What is that?”

“Wolfsbane,” Connor said. “Some people, myself included, use it for protection from those who wish to do us harm. Hang it over a doorway and it will repel evildoers. I’ve spent the day placing it all over town, including over the doorway of your police station.”

He paused expectantly, much to Kat’s annoyance. Did he want her to thank him? She was miffed that he had been right outside the station and no one managed to see, let alone catch, him in the act.

“That was real nice of you,” she said dryly. “I would have preferred it if you had just stepped inside and told us everything you knew. Then maybe I would have believed you. But that running thing you keep doing? It makes me think you’ve got something to hide.”

“I regret running.”

Kat rolled her eyes. Of course he would say that
now
.

“But I didn’t know who to trust. Remember, Constance didn’t tell me who might be trying to cover up the history of Rebecca Bradford. She only said that someone was.”

Kat studied his face, searching for signs that he was lying. Connor knew it, too, and kept his features completely still. His eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. When Kat looked away, the corners of Connor’s mouth slid upward in a smug half-smile.

“You’re still wondering if you can trust me, I can tell,” he said. “I think I know a way to convince you.”

“How?”

“Before I left the museum last night, Constance gave me something to look after. Insurance, I suppose. In case something happened to her and the history of Rebecca Bradford was once again lost.”

Connor again shoved a hand in his pocket, fishing around for something inside. “I can’t reach it. You’re going to have to take these cuffs off.”

Kat didn’t even blink. “Not a chance.”

“Then you’ll have to reach into my pocket and get it yourself.”

From the smile still plastered on his face, Kat assumed Connor didn’t think she’d do it. So she called his bluff. Getting up, she walked behind his chair and said, “Right pocket or left?”

“Left,” he said.

“Put your hands on the table, palms flat against it.”

Once he did, Kat got in close, her chest pressing against the back of his chair.

“If you do something stupid, like, I don’t know, try to attack me and run away again, I will hunt you down and make sure you spend a long time in jail. With such a pretty mouth, I think you’ll be real popular there.”

She patted Connor on the shoulder, making sure he understood loud and clear. Then she reached deep into his left pocket, fingers searching for whatever was in there. Kat had no idea. Eye of newt, maybe. Or more wolfsbane. Turns out it was just a single sheet of paper, folded twice. Opening it, she saw that one side had been covered with pencil-thin lines.

“It’s a map,” Connor said.

“I know. I’ve already seen it.”

A copy of it had been inside one of the folders on Constance Bishop’s desk. Kat recognized the crudely drawn shoreline and triangular trees. But instead of bearing the same red question mark she had seen on Constance’s map, this one had a big, bold
X
. Just below it was written a location, scrawled in equally large print.

THE MILL.

9
P
.
M
.

Kat shouldn’t have been driving alone, not on this unlit stretch of Old Mill Road. Her exhaustion had roared back as soon as she got in the car. She had been fine in the museum, the spark of confronting a suspect keeping her wide awake. But now Connor Hawthorne was in the care of Carl Bauersox and Kat was all alone struggling to keep her eyes open. Dry from overuse, they blurred her surroundings, making the road a series of hazy gray curves she struggled to follow.

Her brain was hazy, too. More than once she zoned out, lulled by the hum of the car’s engine and the streaking road in her headlights. It almost made her miss her turn. She snapped out of it at the last possible second, jerking the wheel to the left and veering off Old Mill Road.

The Crown Vic bounced onto what had once been a dirt access road but was now a rut-studded bare patch in the grass. Lake Squall sat to her left, shimmering in the moonlight. To her right was a patch of woods thinned by autumn. And just up ahead was the former site of the Perry Mill.

For decades, the mill had crowded the southern end of Lake Squall—a rambling cluster of outbuildings and maintenance sheds, loading docks and railroad tracks. When the mill closed, a lot of the smaller structures were left to crumble and rot. Then the main building burned down, leaving no piece of the enterprise still standing. It had all been cleared out in the past year. Now the land was a vast expanse of grass and gravel.

Not having the time—or the energy—to search the hundred-acre plot on foot, Kat let the car roll over the landscape. She gently guided the steering wheel back and forth, making the headlights sweep over scrub brush and weeds tall enough to lash the car’s front bumper.

She braked when the headlights caught a massive rectangle of blackened earth. A grave, of sorts, marking the spot where the mill’s main building had been located. That was the site of the first blaze to destroy a piece of Perry Hollow history. One year and three fires later, Kat hoped there wouldn’t be any more.

She moved on, driving close to the edge of the woods. A few deer had ventured out of it to nibble on the grass. They snapped to attention when the Crown Vic approached, their eyes glowing white in the headlights. As the car got closer, they fled into the woods, white tails bouncing.

At the end of the property, Kat steered the patrol car in a wide left turn and headed back toward Old Mill Road. This time she stayed near the lake, where it was still and quiet. The water, as smooth as a mirror, reflected the moon. There was barely a breeze, and what little wind did exist passed silently through freshly bare trees. Other than the weeds slapping against the car, the only sounds Kat heard were the muffled rush of the occasional car driving on Old Mill Road and the hoot of an owl hidden somewhere in the woods.

Rolling on, Kat started to get bored by her search. And frustrated. And more than a little annoyed that she had thought there’d be something to discover on this vacant stretch of land. She put pressure on the gas pedal, no longer rolling through the weeds but actually driving. She couldn’t wait to get back into town, where she was really needed. This was just a dumb idea, a mistake that she could only chalk up to being very, very tired.

She was halfway across the property when she spotted a deer taking a drink from the lake. Startled, the deer sprang away from the water and toward her car. It ran alongside her a moment, bounding through the grass in that frightened, reckless way that deer were known for. When it leaped in front of the Crown Vic, Kat swerved to avoid hitting it.

The deer darted right. Kat careened left, the grass, weeds, and distant trees a blur in the sweep of the headlights. Also in the glow was a patch of darkness. Rumbling closer, Kat saw that it was a hole. A sizable one.

She veered right this time, the headlights once more passing over the hole. It was wide—several feet, at least—and deep enough to mess up her night even more if she was to hit it. As she slammed on the brakes, the Crown Vic skidded, on the verge of spinning right over the edge. But the tires finally gripped the earth and tugged the car to a stop.

Kat sat completely still, breath heavy, heart pounding. The sound was matched by the rogue deer, still running, passing the car. It reached the hole, leaped over it, then continued running, vanishing in the darkness.

When it was gone, Kat climbed out of the car and retrieved an extra-large flashlight from the trunk. Then it was on to the edge of the hole, the beam of the flashlight aimed into its depths.

At least six feet deep, it had been dug by hand. The sides were uneven and dotted with shovel marks. The end across from her sloped roughly upward, making an easier way out for the person who had done the digging. Kat noticed shoeprints in the dirt going in both directions. Pieces of rotted wood were scattered at the bottom.