Her Loving Husband's Curse (17 page)

Geoffrey shrugged. “I’m so sorry, Sarah. It seems James only knows two songs: ‘You Didn’t Raise Me at All’ and ‘The You Left Me Alone Blues.’”

“What on earth did you…”

Sarah held up her hand. “James, please.” She shook her head at Geoffrey and sighed. “Sometimes I feel like a mother with two boys instead of one little daughter.”

Geoffrey pointed at James. “He started it.”

“Geoffrey was just leaving,” James said.

“Hmpf.” Geoffrey drank his blood in one gulp while his eyes popped and his lips pulled and he grimaced as he swallowed. “Very well, James, I’ll leave you to your life drinking revolting donated blood. But be warned. Others of our kind will begin to come out of the shadows of the night, and the human people will know.”

“No,” James said. “It’s not too late to fix this. If people think deranged humans murdered Hempel then they’ll keep laughing at the vampire stories.”

Geoffrey shrugged. “I don’t know, James. Too many are too angry.”

“But Hempel is dead,” Sarah said.

“I don’t know if Hempel himself matters any more,” Geoffrey said. “This ‘Vampire Dawn’ has taken on a life of its own.”

“Vampire Dawn?” Sarah asked.

“That’s what they’re calling it on that talking box you have over there.”

“The television?” James said.

“That’s it.”

That night James was alert to conspicuous shadows. He watched the nearby houses and wondered what the sleeping families inside would think if they knew a vampire lived there, had lived there on and off for more than three hundred years. Would they believe that though his house, the old wooden one with the two peaked gables, had once been haunted by the specter of memories from the Salem Witch Trial days, it was all right now, she was home, they were together again, their daughter in their arms, their family intact. Would they hate me, he wondered? Throw stones? Chase us with pitchforks and torches? Would they even care?

Inside Sarah sat on the rocking chair in Grace’s bedroom, resting her head against the side of the crib while she watched their daughter sleep. Grace was an angel in every way, he knew. When Sarah saw him through the window she smiled that smile he loved to see, that sweet, beautiful smile, and he could tell by the determination in her eyes that she had come to the same conclusion he had. They would see this through together.

James walked into Grace’s bedroom as Sarah kissed the baby’s gold curls. She pulled the blanket to Grace’s chin, then extended her hand to James. He pulled her near him, holding her head to his chest, and they stayed close until she sighed. They walked from Grace’s room hand in hand, and Sarah shut the door behind them.

“You never told me Jocelyn drinks from Steve,” she said.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid I wanted your blood.”

“She doesn’t get blood from the hospital?”

“She used to, but after she and Steve were married they decided she would drink from him.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It doesn’t hurt the vampire at all.” James smiled weakly, then shrugged. “It must hurt some. You have to pierce the skin to get to the blood.”

Sarah pointed her chin up, and he kissed her.

“If you want to drink from me, you can,” she said. “It might not be safe for you to get blood from the hospital now with everyone thinking about vampires. If you drank from me you wouldn’t need to go there anymore.”

James stepped back, stunned by her words. “Absolutely not, Sarah. Don’t ever bring it up again.”

“It can’t hurt that much if Jocelyn feeds from Steve. She loves him. She would never hurt him.”

“I will not drink my wife’s blood.”

“That’s right—I’m your wife and I love you. My blood must be better for you than anyone else’s.”

“Sarah, I don’t want to drink anyone’s blood, but I have to and the donated blood is the best way for me.” He pulled Sarah toward him. “I want to take my wife out to dinner and eat pizza and drink beer like everyone else, but I can’t so I have to feed myself the best way I can. The best way doesn’t include making a meal of my wife.”

Sarah didn’t look angry, but she wasn’t happy, either. She was quiet a long time, her brow furrowed, her arms crossed, lost in thought. Finally, she said, “You knew Hempel was at it again.”

James bowed his head. “Yes,” he said.

It began to rain, and the tap-tap-tap of the water hitting the wooden house added a hollow tone to their conversation. Sarah took a spatula from the counter and waved it at him in rhythm with the raindrops.

“When are you going to understand I’m not that fragile?” She put the spatula down and dropped her head into her hands. He could see the pain in her eyes when she lifted her head to look at him. “I need to know what I’m dealing with, James. I need to know what we’re facing. What else do you know? What other secrets are you keeping from me?”

James put his arms around her waist and kissed the top of her dark curls. He smoothed her creased brow with his fingers. “That’s it, Sarah. Now you know everything I know.”

“It needs to stay that way, James. You need to be truthful with me. If something is wrong, you need to tell me.”

“I will,” he said.

And when he said it, he meant it. But he also knew he wouldn’t sit idly by this time while everything around him became unsettled and unsure. This time he would make sure his wife and daughter weren’t consumed by the madness. Whatever it took, he decided, he would protect them. If they had to flee at a moment’s notice, they would. This time they wouldn’t stay behind until the madness was too all encompassing to escape, and he took some comfort in that.

* * * * *

It has begun. It is night, and still they are swept from the land like dust from a porch. Soon, you will never know they were here.

They do not want to leave. This is their land. Their trees. Their crops. Their father’s fathers, their mother’s mothers, their grandparents as far back as history recalls, all of them are here by this rock. There by that river. Everywhere your eyes see. But they must go. When the President of the United States will not uphold the agreement that keeps Cherokee land in Cherokee hands, they must go, if not of their own free will then by the force the musket-bearing soldiers are happy to provide.

Some of the people are stoic as they begin to walk, their faces stone-hard. The soldiers are impatient, shouting, pointing, pushing him here, shoving her there. The women scream for their children, but the soldiers are careless, separating the small ones from the big ones in their haste. This is all the people hear now…hurry.

All the seven clans are here, Long Hair and Blue, Wolf and Wild Potato, Deer, Bird, and Paint. I recognize the medicine man from the Paint tribe (most medicine people are from the Paint tribe since medicine is ‘painted’ onto the person in the healing ceremony), the one who eyed me so readily at the Stomp Dance last week. He sees me watching through my cabin window. I walk outside to offer my help to his family, but he turns away abruptly, as though suddenly he is afraid of me. I see the way he talks to my neighbor, and though I don’t understand their words I see the familiarity between them, the resemblance in their features. I realize my neighbor is the medicine man’s son.

I watch in horror as my sturdy, straight-backed neighbor, with biceps the size of a normal man’s thighs, stands helplessly nearby while soldiers point bayonets at his family. His mother-in-law refuses to leave her home, whatever was left after the fire, and she sits stubbornly, cross-legged on the floor. My neighbor yells at her in their language, but she folds her arms and turns away like an annoyed five-year-old. Two soldiers push past my neighbor, lift his mother-in-law by the arms, carry her outside, and drop her hard on the ground. My neighbor moves to help her, but the soldiers shake the sharp end of their bayonets in his direction. The medicine man is able to approach the older woman, the soldiers do not see him, and he soothes her with his soft-spoken words. My neighbor’s pretty wife, with a screaming toddler on her hip, rushes back inside to grab whatever was left unscorched by the fire, and she returns with the blanket my neighbor saved that night. My neighbor grabs his musket from the doorway. All around frantic people call out in cracked voices, seeking family and trying to stay together in the chaos.

I want to help them, Lizzie. The fear you can hold in your hands like sharp-edged razors—can you feel it? The wails of the mothers as they’re dragged from their children—can you hear it? Do you see the downcast heads of the fathers as their families are yelled at, pushed at, poked with the sharp ends of bayonets? I recognize their contorted faces, their slumped shoulders, the weight that pulls them all the way down. They look the way I felt when I watched the constable drag you away. This is torture, Lizzie. No other word will do, and I must help them.

The wagons are moving. The walking has begun.

CHAPTER 14

James paced the ten short steps of his office replaying the newsreel of Hempel’s murder in quick-time scenes behind his eyes. Here is the still of Hempel’s whitewashed house. There is the mug shot-like photo of Hempel, his thinning hair brushed to the side, his tie knotted perfectly, his small, nervous eyes. There the blood stains the rug, and there the red ooze trails outside. The more James tried to force the images away, the more brightly they burned and blinded him.

He wanted to leave campus, go walking around Salem, through Massachusetts, across the continent. It would take three thousand miles to ease the anxiety he felt like an itching under his skin. It was a strain, this flat-faced ache. He was done teaching for the night, but Sarah had another hour in the library. Needing to keep busy, he logged into his SSU account and checked his e-mail. At the top of the screen was a link from Howard. James groaned aloud. He didn’t want to see it. He opened his office door, ready for his cross-country walk. He got to the elevator, but when the doors opened he couldn’t go inside. He had to see what Howard sent.

He walked back into his office and clicked the link, which directed him to a clip from WCVB Channel 5. He stared at the young woman on the screen, her coffee-brown hair leveled in a blunt cut, her beige suit blending into the mess of Kenneth Hempel’s home office. That’s what Kansas looked like after Dorothy was swept away, James thought. Confusion everywhere. The camera panned to the filing cabinets tipped on their sides. The desk was turned over, and pencils, files, newspapers, and books littered the floor. A yellow line of police tape prevented the reporter from stepping directly into the room.

“This is the office of Kenneth Hempel, the former reporter for the
Salem News
who was murdered in his home office last week. His wife, a teacher for the Salem Public Schools, was gone with their two young children to visit her family in Beverly. Police believe Hempel was murdered here in his office, as indicated by the bloodstains on the floor and the wall, and his body dragged through the back door where his corpse was left in the yard. After neighbors called authorities, police arrived to find Hempel dead, apparently of vicious wounds to the neck. A coroner’s report is expected to be released to the public as soon as it becomes available. This is what Sheriff Mannion had to say about Hempel’s death…”

Cut to a portly, red-faced sheriff stretching his short neck over the podium lined with microphones. He strains his Boston accent to the limit to be heard over the drumming banter of the reporters. The sheriff’s hands jump nervously from his belt buckle to his thinning gray hair.

“We’re unable to comment on the exact cause of Mr. Hempel’s death until we receive the coroner’s report. All we can say for certain now is the perp, or perps, broke into his home some time after 8 p.m. that night.”

“How do you know it was after 8 p.m.?” a reporter asked.

“According to Mrs. Hempel, she called her husband at approximately 8 p.m. to ask if he’d like to go out for pizza with the children when they arrived home.”

The reporters shout their questions at once.

“We’re as troubled by this as the citizens of Danvers,” the sheriff said. “We’re doing everything we can to solve this quickly and bring the murderer to justice.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“We know Mr. Hempel accused certain individuals of being vampires. We have that list of names. We’ll be contacting those individuals shortly.”

“They’re not suspects?”

“Not at this time, no.”

“As you just stated, Sheriff, Mr. Hempel accused several people of being vampires on Salem Public Access television. There have been reports that there were more lists with other names. Is there any truth to those reports?”

“Most of Hempel’s files were destroyed when the room was vandalized.”

“Most?”

“Yes.”

“Were others named?”

“We have no further information on that at this time.”

A seasoned, older voice spoke out above the crowd. “There are some amusing stories being circulated on the web these days, Sheriff Mannion. Can you verify whether or not Mr. Hempel was killed by vampires?”

Everyone in the room laughed but the sheriff, who blotted the wet from his forehead with his sleeve.