Timothy
In the youth center lot, I park by the big oak, sit a minute, stress and fatigue pulling at my eyes, aching in my neck and
shoulders.
I draw in a breath, release it. The kids rely on this class. Even though I should be out there working this case—a man dead,
a woman missing, another in the hospital—I owe them this hour. Canceling, not showing up, that’s what the kids at the gym
expect from the adults in their life. I don’t want to be another grownup that they can’t trust, who doesn’t do what he says
he will. I remember what it was like when my dad disappeared, that helpless feeling of anger and sadness. So now I come here
when I’m sick, when I’m tired, when I’ve worked a double.
That’s why I’m trying so hard to keep the doors open. If the youth center goes away, the kids who come here after school won’t
have any place else healthy and safe to go.
Right now I’m giving every spare dollar I have to this place, calling in every favor. So is everyone who volunteers here.
The GoFundMe page is doing pretty well and hopefully we’ll pull some big donors at the fundraising event in a few weeks. But
we’re month to month at the moment. If something doesn’t happen, I’m out of ideas on how to make ends meet here.
I’m also out of leads on my case. And something has to happen there, too, and soon, or I know how this goes.
The Blacksmith sisters have a tough lawyer and won’t be easily manipulated.
Since the voodoo doll and swatch of cloth, Old Bob has turned up nothing in spite of numerous passes through the woods and at the site.
He agreed to walk with me again in the morning—though the longer it goes, the less evidence we’ll be able to find.
I lean back a minute and stare up at the gray sky, think about what I do know.
Paul was poisoned. The toxin Beck discovered is consistent with that found in the common plant hemlock—piperidine, alkaloids,
coniine, and y-coniceine. According to Beck, who is chock-full of useless factoids, 3,900 a people a year are injured by electrical
outlets, but nearly 70,000 are accidentally made ill by plants.
Of course, Paul’s death was no accident.
Ignatia Rose, too, appears to have been poisoned, still fighting for her life in the hospital. According to her recent bloodwork
after Beck’s findings, not with the same substance. They’ve yet to determine the exact toxin, and are still running tests.
The doctor said when last I called that Iggy has a fighting chance. Apparently this afternoon, she mysteriously took a turn
for the better, organ function improving. “She’s got a lot to live for,” the doctor said. “I’ve seen it make a difference.”
If she wakes up, maybe she knows something. That’s my dim, faint hope, my only one.
Amanda Alessi seems to have vaporized. No activity on her credit card.
The last call on her phone records just a brief call to her parents.
Her phone is offline, not even low on charge somewhere because if that were the case it’s often still possible for the phone company to grab a signal.
No withdrawals from her bank accounts. Even the location signal from her leased car has been disabled.
Did someone make Amanda Alessi disappear?
Or did she kill Paul and take off for an island somewhere?
It’s almost impossible to go off the grid these days.
Between phones and cameras everywhere, facial recognition software, electronic banking, there’s always a digital trail.
Meanwhile, as far as I can tell, The Cove is a bit of an urban legend. A loose collection of mystical healers, herbalists,
and psychics spread across the region from Little Valley to The Hollows. The whole idea of witches casting spells is a little
silly, isn’t it? There’s nothing about anything called The Cove online, except a rehab facility out in California. Regina
Hayes is just a grieving sister with a wild imagination. I mean, look at her art. There’s a lot going on in that head of hers.
Still—that creepy doll, which literally everyone claims never to have seen anything like it before. That was a little witchy
to be sure.
So, what’s my next move? Above me the branches sway, the afternoon turning to evening.
There’s still a half hour before class starts, so I call Chief Royer. He was the chief when I came on the job here, after
he’d served for more than thirty years at Little Valley PD, starting in patrol and moving up the ranks. And he’s still a very
connected person, as well as on the board of the youth center.
He took me under his wing when I came on the job, and he’s the person I call first when I’m stuck.
“Son,” Royer answers. “Good to hear from you.”
“Chief, how’s retirement?”
A low chuckle. “Lots of cruises and yard work. But the wife is happy. Has me taking tango lessons if you can believe.”
“Sounds nice,” I say. Actually, it sounds like my worst nightmare.
He issues a raspy cough. “Heard about your big case.”
I give him the rundown, all the details. I end with: “That’s why I’m calling, Chief. Know anything about the Blacksmith sisters?”
There’s an interestingly long silence. I wonder if the line has gone dead somewhere during my information dump. Then I hear
the faint sound of the television in the background.
“Vera and Ana,” he says finally, as if pulling the names up from his mental database. “Agnes Blacksmith’s nieces. Sure. They
went to school with my boy, Chuck. Nice girls as I remember, in spite of their parents and everything that went on there.
Though the younger one got in a bit of trouble from time to time. Nothing too serious.”
This does not surprise me. Her picture on HookUp was intriguing. Those blue eyes and raven hair, milky skin. A slight smile,
like she knew a secret she was dying to tell. When she walked in the door of that roadside bar outside of town, Gina’s on
RR3—the instant desire I felt for her was febrile. The fever I have for her is only running hotter.
“Come here often?” she vamped, sliding into the booth seat across from me. She wore this tight black skirt that looked like
it had been painted on, high heels. Her nails were painted black with silver tips. Her lips, cherry.
“It’s my first time.”
“That’s sweet,” she said. “But I’m not sure I believe you.”
Honestly, it was my first HookUp foray. The dating pool in Little Valley is small, and it had been a while since I had felt anything but tired.
Some kid I picked up for shoplifting told me about the app.
Brah, he said from the back seat of the squad car, it’s for real.
I get greased on the regular. He was scrawny, with stringy hair, face faintly acne scarred.
Later that night I downloaded the app, not that I generally take dating advice from troubled teens. That’s how desperate I
was. The next day, I connected with Ana Blacksmith.
“You don’t seem like the type,” she said, sipping her drink. I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth.
“What’s the type?” I asked.
“You look like a Boy Scout,” she said. Then she narrowed her eyes, smiled. “But with an edge.”
We’d barely finished our first drink before she was running her foot up the inside of my leg from across the table. I followed
her to the bathroom, locked the door behind us.
“What kind of trouble?” I ask Chief Royer now.
He sighs. “She and her friends stole a car once, took a joyride. The car belonged to one of their parents, who generously
decided not to file charges. I shut down a party one night, and she was there, three sheets to the wind. I took her home to
Agnes.”
“Agnes. Sounds like you two were friends.”
“Sure, yeah. Old friends.”
“Was she an herbalist?”
He chuckles a little. “Agnes was a florist. But people went to her for various things like teas or salves. Balms. Female stuff,
you know? She had kind of a reputation as like a healer type. People went to her when doctors couldn’t help kind of a thing.
She had a tea for insomnia that even I used sometimes—lavender and chamomile, like that.”
Okay. Interesting.
“What about the girls? Were they involved in anything like that?”
“Gosh, I don’t think so,” he says, blowing out a breath. “Vera’s married now to Brad Kline, the fire protection guy. Made
a fortune. She’s got a couple of kids. Ana has something to do with that social media stuff.”
He clears his throat; in the background I hear the sound of the television again. Some game show.
“Ever hear about a group called The Cove?”
There’s just a moment of hesitation, but it rings like a bell for me.
“The Cove? Huh, no I don’t think so. What’s that?”
“The victim’s sister said it’s like a group of witches that practice in the area. She says Ana and Vera are a part of it.”
A belly laugh that also doesn’t come off quite right. “Witches. Son, you must really be out of leads on your case.”
“I am,” I admit. “And I can’t shake the creepy feeling that the stick doll gave me.”
“Yeah, but witches?”
He clears his throat. “Well, let me think a minute. We had a poisoning case once. It was like one of those things where the
parent makes the child sick so that they can get attention from the doctors.”
“Munchausen syndrome by proxy.”
“That’s it. Long time ago. Kid survived. Mom went to prison. She’s out now, I think. Claimed she was innocent, just trying
to heal the kid because doctors had failed them. The mom had a bit of a reputation—a recluse, crazy. I don’t think anyone
ever called her a witch.”
“Remember a name?”
“Uh, let me see. The mother’s name was Trina. Trina Snell. And the kid. Uh, something that reminds you of spring. That’s it.
April. Her name was April. Still lives in town I think.”
I grab the envelope Vera left with me and open the sheet containing the list of items served at the brunch and everyone in
attendance. There’s her name at the bottom of the list.
April Snell was working in the kitchen at the Blacksmith brunch.
There’s a soft knock at my window and I turn to see Ernie Sanchez with his puppy eyes, and mop of black curls, standing there