The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told (15 page)

That had her nonplussed. “What . . . who are you?”

“Just a friend.”

“That cologne, it's
his
.”

“So you'd know he sent me. Flora, he loves you and knows you love him. But this is not the way to honor his memory. He wants you to give it up before it destroys you. He's dead and you're alive. There's a reason you're here.”

“What? Tell me!”

“Doesn't work like that, you have to find out for yourself. You won't find answers in a Ouija board, though.”

Flora had tentatively moved closer to me. “You look real.”

“Thanks, I try my best. I can't stay long. Not allowed. I have to make sure you're clear-headed on this. No more guilt—it wasn't your fault—get rid of this junk, and live your life. James wants you to be happy again. If not now, then someday.”

“That's all?”

“Flora . . . that's a lifetime. A good one if you choose it.”

“I'll . . . all right. Would you tell James—”

“He knows. Now get some sleep. New day in the morning. Enjoy it.” I was set to gradually vanish again, then remembered—“One last thing, Flora. James' wedding band.” I held my hand out.

“Oh, no, I couldn't.”

“Yes, you can. It belongs with him and you know it. Come on.” Fresh tears ran down her face, but maybe this time there would be healing for her. She had his ring on a gold chain around her neck, and reluctantly took it off. She read the inscription one more time, kissed the ring, and gave it over.

“Everything will be fine,” I said. “This is from James.” I didn't think he'd mind. I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, very lightly, and vanished before she could open her eyes.

For the next few hours I drove around Chicago, feeling like a prize idiot and hoping I'd not done even worse damage to Flora than Alistair Bradford. I didn't think so, but the worry stuck.

Eventually I found my way back to that big cemetery and got myself inside, walking quickly along the path to the fancy mausoleum and the grave behind it.

I was damned tired, but had one last job to do to earn Abby Saeger's five bucks.

Pinching the ring in my fingers as Flora had done at the séance, I extended my arm and disappeared once more, this time sinking into the earth. It was the most unpleasant sensation, pushing down through the broken soil, pushing until what had been my hand found a greater resistance.

That
would be James Weisinger's coffin.

I'd never attempted anything like this before, but was reasonably sure it was possible. This was a hell of a way to find out for certain.

Pushing just a little more against the resistance, it suddenly ceased to be there. Carefully not thinking what that meant, I focused my concentration on getting just my hand to go solid.

It must have worked, because it hurt like a Fury, felt like my hand was being sawed away at the wrist. Just before the pain got too much I felt the gold ring slip from my grasp.

One instant I was six feet under with my hand in a coffin and the next I was stumbling in the snow, clutching my wrist and trying not to yell too much.

My hand was still attached. That was good news. I worked the fingers until they stopped looking so claw-like, then sagged against a tree.

What a night.

I got back in my car just as the sleet began ticking against the windows, trying to get in. It was creepy I wanted some sound to mask it but hesitated turning on the radio, apprehensive that “Gloomy Sunday” might be playing again.

What the hell. Music was company, proof that there were other people awake somewhere. I could always change the station.

When it warmed up, Bing Crosby sang “Pennies from Heaven.” Someone at the radio station had noticed the weather, perhaps, and was having his little joke.

I felt that twinge again, but now it raised a smile.

ANNE PERRY

The court came to order and the Judge entered, not with the shrill call of bugles or the roll of drums, but in silence and alone. His men-at-arms were outside, breastplates under their tunics as always, swords at the ready, and amulets at their necks. Since this was a trial for murder by witchcraft, perhaps this last was the most important.

The Judge took his seat in the high, carved chair, behind the ancient bench with its runes and symbols so dark with use they were almost impossible to read. He was a tall man, but beneath his voluminous robes his body might have been any shape.

The Prosecutor waited as everyone settled in their places. There was a big crowd today, drawn by fear and excitement. He was impatient to begin, and he could see that the Judge was also. It was clear in his hard, clever face, even though he made no move to hasten the ushers. Perhaps he liked seeing them in their black robes, moving like shadows, or reminders of doom.

The Procurator shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He knew he would win. It was a simple case of a woman who had lusted after her brother-in-law. When he had rejected her, forcing her to face the truth of his loyalty to his wife, she had revenged herself by casting a spell which had caused his death. Murder by witchcraft could hardly be clearer. The trial was really just to demonstrate that justice was done. To begin with he had been impatient with the waste of time and the cost of it, until he had appreciated the deterrent effect on other women who might be tempted to such a thing. This new Judge was right to proceed, and publicly. Regrettably, it was a necessary performance. These days too many people were ignorant of the reality of dark powers. They needed reminding of justice, and where it was breached, of punishment.

At last they were settled, and the Chief Usher read out the charge. The accused denied it. Her voice might normally be pleasant, her diction was beautiful, but now she was strained with fear. Good. So she should be. The Prosecutor looked at her curiously. She was quite tall. And slender. The weight of the chains on her must hurt. She was not beautiful, there was too much passion in her face. It was clever and wilful, perhaps what should be expected in one who turned to sorcery.

He stood up. “My fellow citizens!” His voice rang around the room. He surveyed them. After all, this was for their benefit, or it could have been done secretly. He was interested to see that there were as many women here as men. Some were in fine dresses of rich fabric decorated with embroidery, the heavy girdles around their waists were studded with gems, their hair braided with ribbons. Others wore plain browns and drabs, hair tied back with scarves, as if lately come in from some form of work.

The men too were of every variety, knights-at-arms, clerks in brown jerkins with ink-stained fingers, students and artisans with calloused hands. He saw at least one apothecary—now there was an art which at times verged too close to the sorcerers! And of course there were many farmers and labourers. The dead man had been a farmer, a rich one.

He called his first witness, Stroban, the dead man's father. Stroban moved forward from the front bench and into the Square of Testimony, straightening his shoulders with an effort. Grief had aged him in a few terrible days. His face was bleached of colour, his grey hair seemed thinner, drawn across his skull like an inadequate protection. He looked at the accused just once, and his outrage was naked in his eyes. Then he turned to the Prosecutor. He was here to see justice for his dead son, and he would not let himself down by losing his composure.

The Prosecutor asked his name and circumstances. He answered clearly in a low voice in which pride and sorrow were equally mixed.

The Prosecutor pointed to the accused where she stood, body stiff, face averted as though she found it too difficult to meet his eyes. “And who is she?” he demanded.

“Anaya,” Stroban replied. “The widow of my daughter-in-law's brother. She came in her time of need, and we took her in and treated her as our own.” His voice cracked. He struggled to control it. “And she repaid us with envy, rage and murder!”

There was a ripple of horror around the room, a mixture of hunger and fear.

The judge leaned forward, his face grave, the lines around his mouth deep and hard. “That is what we are here to test, and to prove, aye or nay.”

“Of course, my lord,” Stroban acknowledged bleakly. “It is right that judgement should be seen. It is the law, and necessary to a just and civilized life.”

The judge nodded. “Justice will be served, I promise you, and great and everlasting justice, deeper than men will easily grasp.”

The Prosecutor permitted himself to smile. The Judge was a proud man, even a little arrogant, and he would frequently interrupt where it was not needed, because he liked the sound of his own voice. But he would rule correctly. The Prosecutor would one day be a judge like him, with his strengths, but not his weaknesses, not his pomposity or his conceit. Curious how quickly one could see that.

“You took her in and gave her a home?” he said aloud, just to confirm it for the court.

“Yes,” Stroban agreed. “It was no less than our duty.”

The Prosecutor flinched. That sounded a little cold and self-righteous. It was not the image he had wished to display of the bereaved family. “How long ago was this?” he said hastily.

“Just under a year.”

“And how did she behave?” He must move them on to think about the accused. He glanced at her, and saw no contrition in her face, no respect, only what seemed to be fear.

“At first, with meekness and gratitude,” Stroban answered. “All gentleness, modesty and obedience.” His face reflected the hurt of her betrayal.

The Prosecutor felt an overwhelming anger rise in him. Of all crimes witchcraft infuriated him the most, it was the culmination of everything evil that deceived and destroyed. It denied honour, and humanity. He looked at the Judge and saw a like anger in his high, thin face, the disgust and revulsion that he felt himself, and the knowledge that he had it within his power, at least this time, to punish it as it should be punished—with death. Witches might have black arts, but they were still mortal, and once they were exposed, they could feel pain like anyone else.

He controlled his face and his voice with difficulty, and only because he was certain of the outcome.

Stroban was less certain. All his life he had known right from wrong. Any man did, if he were honest in heart. And could there be any virtue greater than to know truth and judge rightly? It was the cornerstone of all virtue. Too often evil prevailed. Had it not done so in his own house his beautiful son would not now be lying dead. Bertil, whom he had raised so carefully, taught every detail of honour and righteousness. And then this woman, with her cleverness, her inappropriate laughter, her wild thoughts, had come into their home, taken in by charity, and first betrayed them by trying to seduce Bertil away from his wife, and then when he had rejected her she had threatened to kill him. And when he had still refused, she had cast her spell, an act of deliberate murder.

The Prosecution was speaking again. “How long did she behave this way, feigning love and obedience?”

“She never stopped,” Stroban said with disgust for her deceit.

The Prosecutor looked at the Judge's face. Stroban had not been duped because of his own innocence and charity, his inability to imagine such duplicity. The man was self-righteous, too quick to judge and condemn. It was a cold fault, an ugly one.

But the Judge would be shown the truth, and then it would be the time to act. There must be law. Rules must be made and kept, by everyone. Without rules there was chaos, and that was truly terrifying, the gateway to all darkness. Even the Judge must obey the law.

The Prosecutor wanted more details. “Did she work hard around the farm? And the house? Was she truthful, as far as you know? Did she respect you, and your wife? Did she treat you with a courtesy and gratitude that she owed you?”

“Oh yes,” Stroban replied. “She was very careful.” He knew he must speak the exact truth, whatever it was. He had committed no wrong, so it could not harm him, or his family.

The Prosecutor's eyes widened. “Your choice of words suggests that you think she planned something evil from the beginning. Is that so?”

Stroban hesitated for a moment. He believed that she had, but it was only in the hindsight of what she had done. He had not known it then. He looked at her standing in her chains, and wondered how he could have been so blind. It was his own innocence that had blinded him.

“No,” he admitted aloud. “I should not have implied that. I do not know what was in her mind. But she was attracted to poor Bertil from the start, that was plain. At the time I believed it was only recognition of his goodness. Everyone liked Bertil.” Emotion overcame him and he was unable to regain control of himself for several minutes. He saw pity in the Judge's eyes, and admiration, but neither would have anything to do with his decisions.

“Please continue,” the Prosecutor prompted. “How did the accused show this affection, precisely?”

Stroban forced himself to steady his voice. “She helped him around the farm.”

“How?”

“She was clever.” He said the word so it was half a curse. “She had ideas for improving things. And she was clever with figures, and measurements.” He said the last bitterly. It was measurements she had used to kill Bertil, although he still did not know how.

“She improved your yield?” the Judge interrupted, leaning forward over the ancient bench, his sleeve hiding some of the runes on it. “She made life easier for you, better?”

Stroban felt a surge of anger. He was making her sound good! “For a while,” he admitted. “Oh, she was clever!”

The Prosecutor was annoyed. It showed in his expression, and the nervous clenching and unclenching of his fists. This was his territory and the Judge was trespassing. “Were you grateful for this help?” he cut across. “Did you wish it?”

“At the time, of course we were,” Stroban said.

“All of you? Your wife, Enella, and your daughter-in-law, Korah, as well?”

“Of course.”

“You all trusted the accused?” He pointed to where she stood, her face white, her eyes hollow and frightened even though her head was still high. Did she realize yet that there was no escape for her?

“Yes,” Stroban answered. “Why should we not?”

“Indeed. Tell us what happened to change your mind?”

Stroban felt his stomach twisting with the pain of memory, and yet he was on the brink of finding justice. It was up to him, his word, his saying what was right and true. He must be exact.

“There was a quarrel between Korah and Anaya, the accused.” He avoided looking at her now. “I didn't know what it was about at the time . . .”

“Korah will tell us,” the Prosecutor assured him. “Please go on.”

Stroban obeyed. “A few days later there was a more serious quarrel. That same evening Anaya said that if Bertil did not do as she had told him to, then the barn roof would cave in and kill him.” He could barely say the words. The scene was carved indelibly in his mind, Anaya standing in the kitchen, her hair wound in a copperred ribbon, the sun warming her face, the smells of cooking around them, the door open to the yard beyond and the lowing of the cattle in the distance. It was another world from this. They could not then have imagined the horror that awaited them.

The court was silent, faces still with fear.

“And how did Bertil reply to her?” the Prosecutor asked.

“He said she was wrong,” Stroban whispered. “My poor son! He had no idea.” His voice caught in a sob. “He didn't believe in witchcraft.”

There was a shudder around the room. People shifted in their seats, closer to loved ones.

“But you do?” the Prosecutor insisted.

Stroban was angry, and afraid. He looked at the Judge and saw anger in him too, at the stupidity of the question, perhaps? Then he saw something else in the high-boned, curious face, passionate one moment, ascetic the next. It was a long, breathless moment before he understood that it also was fear. He had tasted the power of sorcery, and he knew there was nothing to protect ordinary men except righteousness, and the exact observance of the law.

But if the Judge knew that, really knew it, then there was hope for them. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Of course I do! But I know that just men, obedient men, can defeat it!”

There was a murmur of admiration around the room, like a swell of the tide. Faces turned to the accused, tight with hatred and fear.

“Had you ever thought before that the barn roof would collapse?” the Prosecutor asked.

“Of course not!” Stroban was angry. “It rests on a great post, thick as a tree trunk!”

“Was anyone in the barn when this happened, apart from your son?”

“No, just Bertil, and one of the oxen.”

“I see. Thank you. The Defender may wish to ask you something.”

Stroban turned to face the young man who now rose to his feet. He was a complete contrast to the Prosecutor. Far from being arrogant, he looked full of doubt, even confused, as if he had no idea what he was going to say or do.