Suffer a Witch (14 page)

“If you like,” George said. “I talk to people about their lives and try to help them make good decisions. I use the tarot, angel cards, and other tools to help understand a particular situation. I’m also intuitive. I have a sense of what’s going on with people.”

“Like what?” Detective Alvarez asked.

“Like that Paleo diet is causing your kidneys to shut down,” George said to the young man. “Feeling tired?”

The young man scowled at George. Detective Donnell looked at the younger detective out of the corner of his eye.

“You can go get it checked,” Detective Donnell said.

The young man ran to the paramedics.

“Sorry about that,” Detective Donnell said. “You had a break between clients.”

“I went upstairs for a nap and something to eat,” George said. “Em runs errands on Fridays. I tried to call her and couldn’t find her. I was talking to Alic . . .ia, Alicia. She lives in the apartments above us.”

“This ‘Alicia,’” Detective Donnell said. “Alicia Parker. Pretty, about yay big?”

The detective raised his hand up to about his shoulder height.

“That’s her,” George said. “She usually eats with us. She came down to see what was for dinner.”

“Your Em’s a good cook?” Detective Donnell asked.

“She is,” George said. “I usually get the credit for it.”

“Good work for you,” Detective Donnell said.

George shrugged. When the detective didn’t say anything, George continued.

“I was looking for Em when Alicia came down,” George said. “She hadn’t seen Em, either. That’s when I got the call that Martha was downstairs and she had Em’s purse.”

“Let’s see.” Detective Donnell flipped through pages in his book. “I talked to a ‘Shonelle’ who said she’d phoned you.”

“She’s a sale associate at the store,” George said.

“I see,” Detective Donnell said. Reading off his sheet, he said, “You ran downstairs?”

“Em always has her purse,” George said. He closed his mouth and nodded as if he’d said what he had to say.

“You know this
Martha
from . . .” Detective Donnell said.

“Before Martha transitioned, she was on my squad in Kuwait,” George said.

“Gulf War?” Detective Donnell asked.

“Yes, sir,” George said. “We cleared houses together in Kuwait City together.”

“I understand
Martha
was a prostitute,” Detective Donnell said.

“She broke her back in Kuwait.” George gestured to his mid-back. “Fell through a roof. She had veteran’s benefits, but . . .”

George shrugged.

“But?” Detective Donnell asked.

“Politicians had a war to pay for, so they gutted those benefits,” George said. “Martha did what she could.”

“So you and Martha come across here, to Central Burying Ground,” Detective Donnell asked. “Why?”

“We’re old friends,” George said. “I wanted to know how she got Em’s purse.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No.”

“Did you want to kill her?”

“Are you asking about the times I wanted to kill her when she was Martha?” George asked with a smile. “Or the times when she was Michael? If you mean both, I wanted to kill her close to a billion times. But I didn’t. I actually liked Martha, thought of her as a friend.”

“Friend you wanted to kill,” Detective Donnell smiled.

“You had to know her,” George said.

“So anybody could have killed her,” Detective Donnell said.

George shrugged and shook his head.

“You came over here, and . . .” Detective Donnell said.

“Talked,” George said. “I wanted to know how Martha got the purse.”

“And how did she?” Detective Donnell asked.

“She found it in the hallway of an apartment building,” George said. “She helped Em get inside to talk to the super there, a ‘Bill Panon.’”

“Do you know Bill Panon?” Detective Donnell asked.

“I’ve met him a few times,” George said. “I usually stay in that apartment building for a week or so when I’m starting out in the winter.”

“When you talked to Martha, did you . . .” Detective Donnell looked at George for a moment and then back down to his pad. “The ME says that Martha’s been dead most of the day.”

Detective Donnell gestured to where Martha’s body had fallen.

“He says blood pooled in her back and head,” Detective Donnell said. “It’s like she rose from the dead and came over here to give you the purse.”

George chose not to respond.

“What do you make of that?” Detective Donnell asked.

“I’m not a medical person,” George said. “I . . .”

George shrugged. Detective Donnell nodded.

“You didn’t notice anything?” Detective Donnell asked.

“I know what you’re asking,” George cleared his throat. “How could I have not noticed that there was something wrong with Martha? I . . .”

George shrugged.

“Martha had drug problems all the way back,” George said. “Michael had a tough time getting in the military. Couldn’t pass the UAs. He got clean and got deployed. I . . .”

George shook his head and looked away. Martha’s spirit was standing next to the detective, reading his notebook.

“He thinks you killed me,” Martha’s ghost said.

“You didn’t notice anything?” Detective Donnell asked.

“Did I notice that Martha was slurring words?” George asked. “Sure, but she usually does. Did I notice she was tangential and argumentative? Sure, but she usually was.”

George shrugged. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John Willard, FBI Agent and one of the Salem Twenty, moving toward the grave where Martha’s body had collapsed.

“Listen, Martha and I came over here,” George said. “She was all over the place. I had to bully her into telling me about the purse. I don’t feel good about it, but I was anxious about Em. That’s what I did. I left her here with a plan to meet up after my clients. She told me to get the purse, which I did. I was at the street when she fell, dropped to the ground, and . . .”

George swallowed hard.

“Why didn’t you check her body?” Detective Donnell asked.

“Check her body?” George asked. “Oh, you mean I should have come over here and taken her pulse or whatever.”

“It’s usual,” Detective Donnell said.

“I’ve seen a lot of death,” George said.

“In Kuwait,” Detective Donnell said in an even tone.

“In Kuwait,” George said. “In Boston. Every winter, homeless men, women, and children die out in the cold. Here in Boston, in Salem, in New York City, everywhere here in the US.”

“Okay, okay,” Detective Donnell said.

“If you’re asking how I knew Martha was dead,” George said. “I knew by the way she fell that she was dead. So I went to the store and called you.”

“Did you shoot her?” Detective Donnell asked.

“No,” George said. John Willard moved over toward them.

“Where’s your handgun?”

“I don’t own a weapon,” George said.

“Nothing under the couch, something brought back from Kuwait, some little thing you bought on the black market . . .”

“No,” George said.

The detective opened his mouth to ask another question but saw the look on George’s face and changed course.

“What was in the purse?” Detective Donnell asked.

“I don’t actually know,” George said. “Your people took it as soon as they arrived. Do you know what was in it?”

“Nothing exciting,” Detective Donnell said. “Wallet, keys, sunglasses, hairbrush, things of that nature. Very practical.”

“Em’s a practical person,” George said.

John stood just close enough to listen in on their conversation but far enough away to not appear to be too interested.

“What errand was she running in Jamaica Plain?” Detective Donnell asked.

“I won’t know until I find her,” George said.

“Would it surprise you if I told you that a woman’s body was found by a ‘Bill Panon’?” the detective asked.

Surprised, George looked at the detective and then looked at John Willard. John nodded.

“I need to . . .” George swallowed hard. John Willard started across the grass toward him. “My friend John . . .”

Detective Donnell looked up.

“SSA John Willard, Federal agent,” John said. He held up his credentials.

“John Willard,” Detective Donnell said. “George Burroughs.”

John raised his eyebrows to indicate that he thought the detective was a moron.

“What can I do for the FBI?” Detective Donnell asked.

“I need George to identify a body,” John said.

“I was just getting to . . .”

“The body is a part of a federal investigation,” John said.

“I thought . . .” Detective Donnell started.

“You thought wrong,” John said.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Detective Donnell said to George.

“If you’re done?” John asked Detective Donnell.

When Detective Donnell nodded, John took George’s arm. They moved at a brisk pace across the sidewalk. John opened his sedan and put George in the passenger seat. Martha’s ghost got in the back.

“How many hours?” John asked George.

“Martha said she saw Em at eleven,” George said.

John looked at the clock. It was seven-thirty.

“We have a few more hours,” John said. He put the car in gear and sped onto Boylston Street. “Any ideas?”

“I lost my keys to the red-haired girl,” George said.

“Irish?” John asked. “Ghost?”

“Yes,” George said.

“She gave them to me,” John said. “They’re in my pocket. I’ll get them when I get out.”

George gave a slight nod. They drove in silence for a few minutes.

“She likes keys?” John asked.

“She does,” George said.

“Got a name?” John asked.

“She don’t know her name,” Martha said from the back seat.

John glanced at the spirit and shook his head.

“When Em gets back, she’s going to . . .” John started.

“I sure hope so,” Martha said. “I have no plans to spend eternity with you all.”

“And dancing with the devil?” George asked.

“He’s gonna be there, Reverend,” Martha said.

“For what it’s worth, I think the ghost is right,” John said.

“I prefer ‘specter,’” Martha said.

George groaned. They drove for a few more minutes in silence.

“Ann picked up Em,” John said. “The girls are already there.”

“They’re sure it’s Em?” George asked.

“It’s Em,” John said.

George nodded. They drove in anxious silence to Sam Wardwell’s home.

Em picked up her empty teacup and went into the kitchen. When she had lived here, this area had been her mother’s domain. They were wealthy enough to afford a cook, but her mother liked to cook for the three of them. Em remembered this room as a very large space, filled with food, laughter, and her wonderful mother. But standing in her mother’s domain tonight, she saw what a small, almost tiny space it was. She clicked on the electric kettle and went back to her spot for the night — the wide, comfortable couch in front of the fire.

Dinner had been an interesting affair. Her father had made Shepherd’s Pie. Justine, her father’s wife, had told story after charming story about her adventures as a nearly blind archeologist. Justine was the opposite of Em’s mother, with blond curly hair, clear blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. While Em’s mother insisted on speaking her mind and owning her power, with Justine, it was transparent that Em’s father ran the roost. More than once, Em had wondered what her mother would say about this wife.

And yet, Justine and Em’s mother had a lot in common. They were both deeply kind, almost over-sensitive to another’s point of view and feelings. Tonight, Justine had insisted on making Em comfortable before retiring to the bedroom. Em didn’t have the heart to tell her that she’d spent a good portion of her childhood lying on the stone floor in front of this fire. Instead, she thanked Justine and settled in for the night.

Em got up when the kettle clicked off. She took down two mugs from the cabinet and made tea for herself and her father. She was just pouring tea when he arrived in the kitchen. Picking up a mug, he led her out onto the patio. They sat down in two metal patio chairs. The stars blazed above, and the Atlantic Ocean pounded the shore fifty feet in front of them. She held her cup under her nose to drink in the smell of Rousay — one part strong tea, one part ocean spray, one part love. She glanced at her father to find him looking at her. He smiled.

“What year is it?” Em asked.

“1978,” her father said.

“How . . .?” Em asked.

“It’s a time lock and loop,” her father said. “The next time you died, your essence would come to Rousay and I would be notified. I would meet you here as soon as possible. We would talk.”

Em nodded.

“I have to say that I expected to see you a lot sooner,” her father said.

“I’m not big on risks,” Em said.

“Yes,” her father said. “And George?”

“He fights in every war,” Em said with a shrug.

“Immortality is not wasted on George Burroughs,” her father said.

“No,” Em laughed. Her father laughed at her laugh. “If I had died again in the 1800s?”

“1778,” her father said.

“1878 if I’d died in the 19
th
century?” Em asked.

“It’s not original, but it seems to have worked,” her father said. “What year is it for you?”

“2014,” Em said. “You’re telling me that we cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”

“That’s correct,” her father said. “It’s a kind of ‘There can be only one.’”

“How so?” Em asked.

“If we’re in the same space and the same time, we will want to kill each other,” her father said.

“And now?”

“A physical manifestation of your essence is here with me,” her father said, with a shrug. “Try it when you get home. Of course, you can always speak to me via astral projection.”

“Just not in physical body, mind, and soul,” Em said.

“That’s correct,” her father said.

“Astral projection always leaves me feeling awful,” Em sneered and shook her head, “for days.”

“It’s a family trait,” her father said. “You probably get sick like I do when you make a prediction.”

Em smiled in agreement. They drank their tea in silence. Her father turned to look at her.

“We are immortal, you and I,” her father said.

“Is that what being ‘made of God’ means?” Em asked.

“‘Made of God’?” He looked genuinely confused.

“Just before Henry and I left for America, you told me that you and I were ‘truth tellers,’” Em said. “Something like we see only the truth, live the truth.”

“We are God’s truth,” he said. “Yes, I remember saying that.”

“Is that about being immortal?” Em asked.

“It’s about being ‘made of God,’” he said.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means that there is a creator.” He flattened his right hand parallel to the ground and held it about chest high.

“Then us.” He placed his left hand, in the same flattened position, below his right hand.

“Humans are below that,” Em said.

“We are made only of the creator and this place,” he said. “Humans are made of us and the earth.”

“Humans are not directly of God,” she said.

“The creator,” he said with a nod.

“And the truth thing?” she asked.

“Don’t you know the truth when you hear it?” He shrugged. “Don’t you always tell the truth?”

Em nodded.

“What about the others?” Em asked.

“‘The others’?”

“The other witches from Salem,” Em said. “Are they like us?”

Her father shook his head.

“Are they immortal?” she asked.

“I’ve never seen them last more than nine hundred years,” her father said. “But I never lived with them, loved them, or spent my time with them. It was always something that . . . Well, when I was a child, we considered them abominations. They usually ended up in the fire.”

Em nodded.

“I feel like we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves,” he said. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and I have some answers. Where would you like to start?”

“At the beginning,” Em said.

“I don’t know everything,” her father said. “One of the reasons I spend all my time now among the monuments of our ancestors. I want to know and understand everything. I do, however, know one thing — we were made of the elements on this island — earth, sea, wind, rain, sun, air.”

“Rousay?” Em asked.

“Yes,” her father said. “We were here long before the human pre-ancestors. There are markings — both here and in Norway — of the ancient ones who lived on an island, this island. For more than tens of thousands of years, people came to Rousay to connect with us. Until the Romans entered Britain, people came here to worship us. They brought gifts, and we gave wisdom and granted fertility. There were large festivals, big celebrations, and smaller, more desperate ceremonies for desperate pleas.”

“How old are you?” Em asked.

“I was born a thousand years or so before your Christ,” her father said.

“Did you know him?” Em asked.

“Christ?” her father asked. “No. His father.”

“God?” Em asked.

“I had a conversation like this with Henry Rich,” her father said with a broad smile.

“You knew Joseph,” Em said.

“Yes,” he said. “He and I were friends.”

“I remember you saying something like that,” Em nodded. “All of this . . . I guess it was there all the time.”

“No,” her father said. “Henry Rich brought out my rage and impatience.”

“He had a gift for that.” Em smiled, and her father laughed. “Why was I able to grow up with you and mother?”

Em’s voice caught on the word “mother.” There was nothing she would like more than to see her mother again.

“I miss her, too,” her father said. He looked away while she gained control of her emotions. “We are not immortal until we’ve died once. You weren’t immortal then.”

“And your parents?” Em asked.

“I was badly injured on a hunt when I was a young child of six or seven,” her father said. “My parents were forced to leave me here, on Rousay, with the elders.”

“You could be with the elders?” Em asked.

“Yes,” her father said. “We can live in community with each other as long as we don’t spend too much time together. I lived in community with the elders, but I spent most of my time alone in my own dwelling, right here on this spot. Of course, at that time, it wasn’t unusual for a male child to be on his own when he was younger than seven. Most children went on the hunt, into the mines, or even worked the fields, but that was considered girls’ work. I didn’t know to miss my parents. I was doing what every boy
should
do.”

“Are you an elder, then?”

“I suppose,” her father said.

“If you grew up with the elders, why do you have to look at archeology to learn about them?” Em asked.

“I learned our stories from the elders,” he said. “I want to learn our truth.”

“Truth again,” she said.

“It’s a family thing,” he said.

“It’s not an immortal thing?”

“No,” he said. “It’s our thing.”

“But I thought you didn’t think I was your child,” Em said.

“I didn’t,” he said.

“Then why . . .?” She stopped talking when he smiled.

“You were like this as a child,” he said. “You needed truth. I thought we had raised you with the truth, so you longed for it. Truth is like bedrock. When you have it, it’s all you want.”

He shrugged.

“I wasn’t thinking well that day,” he said.

“Why?”

“The only child I had ever been father to was leaving with an imbecile for a new colony fraught with savages, wars, violence, and pedants like Henry Rich,” he said.

She smiled. A wind blew off the sea. For the briefest moment, she felt as if she were standing on the deck of the ship that took her to America. In a blink, she was sitting with her father on Rousay again.

“It will be hard for me to let you return to your beloved Boston,” he said.

“I guess I was hoping I’d meet my people,” Em said in a low voice.

“There aren’t as many of us now. ”

“Why?” Em asked.

Her father sighed and shook his head. He turned his body away from her to look at the ocean.

“Why aren’t there more of us?” Em repeated.

“My opinion is that we don’t live on Rousay anymore,” he said. “But that’s my opinion only.”

“Why would that matter?” Em asked.

“We’re not fertile,” he said. “At least I haven’t been. You?”

“I had two boys, but that was before . . . all of this,” Em said.

“And the others?”

“To the women’s delight and the men’s disappointment — nothing,” Em said.

Her father grinned, and Em smiled. They drank their tea. Her father took a deep breath and turned to look at her.

“Maybe after you’re here,” he said.

“My body is in Boston,” Em said.

He nodded, and they fell silent. Disappointment welled inside her. She’d wanted to know everything, to connect, but her father was controlled and silent. She felt he would answer her questions if she asked them. She just wasn’t sure what question to ask that would get him talking.

“Buddha?” Em asked.

“South Asian princeling,” her father shrugged. “Beautiful being with great ideas, but still a prince.”

Em scowled. She opened her mouth to ask another question, when her father started talking.

“I know what you want from me,” her father said. “You want to know what your place is in this world. You want to know where you fit.”

“But?” Em asked.

“I can’t give that to you,” her father said. “We fit in this world because we were placed here by the creator, your God. We must find our own lives and give them meaning.”

“Like humans,” Em said.

He nodded.

“A few of the witches want to end this,” Em said.

“Sure,” her father said. “Did they choose it?”

“I don’t really know what happened,” Em said.

“Tell me,” he said, evenly, but she felt the power of his command.

“I remember being hanged,” Em said. “They . . . they hated me. It was so shocking to me.”

“What was?”

“How much they hated me,” Em said. “I think I said something about my innocence, but . . . George was dead. Giles, my husband, was dead. My children had been tortured nearly to death to get them to testify against me. I was exhausted. I wanted relief.”

“Sure,” he said.

“I woke up in the crevice,” Em said. “I was under a couple of the women and on top of everyone else.”

“You touched them after you woke up,” he said.

Em nodded.

“That’s how they became quasi-immortal,” he said. “Witches.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“After the first death, our kind has the capacity to make people witches,” he said.

“Abominations,” she said.

“That’s how we thought of them when I was a child,” he said with a nod. “But I’ll tell you — I’d give anything to have made an abomination out of your mother.”