Chapter Thirty
THIRTY
For the second time that week, emergency vehicles make their way to Beacon Terrace. This time, though, there are no pulsing lights, no paramedics rushing to the scene—just the stately progress of the undertakers and Mary’s doctor, his hat respectfully removed as he enters Bert’s home. Even though it’s late, the air is sticky with heat, almost tropical. Sam says that storms are forecast over the next few days, breaking the back of this hot spell. I’ve always hated storms. Eddie loved them. He would hide out in our spot in the attic to get the best view of the lightning, me squirrelled beneath a coverlet in the dark, him with his eyes wide, face lit up with exhilaration. Eddie would count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder and tell me if the storm was moving away. He’d laugh at my fear, making sure to squeeze my hand when the thunder got too loud. “It’s just opposite forces, Mina,” he’d say. “Just warm air meeting cold air, that’s all.”
I stayed with Bert as the private ambulance took Mary away. The vehicle was low and dark and close to the ground, the undertaker and two young men barely out of their teens, their gangly frames hung in black suits like crows. Bert looked stunned, as though someone had knocked the air out of him. He kept saying, “I hope she didn’t suffer,” and putting his head in his hands. I did not mention the burst blood vessel in Mary’s eye and, if Bert noticed it, he didn’t, either. He had simply drawn the bedsheet over her body and shaken his head sadly. I had to help him out of the room when his knees buckled.
Sam brought Lisa home just as the doctor arrived to certify the death. As soon as she realized what had happened, Lisa had started to sob and she hasn’t really stopped since. I remember Fern telling me that Bert and Mary had taken Lisa in when she was pregnant and homeless, and my heart sinks a little deeper.
I’m brushing my teeth with my head hung tired and heavy over the sink when Sam slides in, softly closing the door behind him. I get a shock when I see him in the bathroom mirror. He looks as if he has aged a decade overnight, washed-out and shaken. He scratches at the skin of his neck idly, waiting for me to spit and swill water down the sink before asking, “Are you all right?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing. You look awful, Sam.”
“I’ve just got off the phone to the hospital.”
I stare at him, eyes widening in horror, because I know what’s coming, I know.
“Vicky passed away this afternoon. She never regained consciousness. Brain death, they called it. Imagine that, from a tiny sting no bigger than a pinprick. You can imagine the state her parents are in.”
I remember the way that wasp had crawled over Alice’s fingers and shudder as if suddenly cold.
“God. They must be devastated. Does Alice know?”
“Lisa went in and told her just now. She said Alice barely responded. It was as if she already knew.”
We are both silent a moment, deep in thought. My mind keeps circling back to Mary’s eye filmed with blood, the bluish cast to her lips that hinted at a protracted struggle for breath. My hands are gripping the cold porcelain of the sink so tightly I can feel my pulse under my nails.
“That’s three people dead in as many days and Alice was with two of them when it happened,” Sam says. He is choosing his words carefully, as if picking his way across a minefield. “I don’t need to tell you what people are saying, do I?”
“She didn’t do it, Sam.”
“Have you tried telling that to all the people outside?”
“I’ve been trying to avoid them,” I say truthfully. It started with a handful, about half past ten. Now, at nearly midnight, there are dozens out there, stumbling around and catcalling, looking at the Webbers’ house with suspicion and a bright, bristling hostility. “Someone must have seen the undertaker take Mary away. She’s barely cold and the whole town knows about what happened.”
I turn on the tap. My hands shake as I soak a cold flannel and wipe it over my face. Sam watches carefully and I realize he is waiting for me to say something.
“What?” I ask.
“What did happen? In there?”
“I’ve already told Lisa and Bert this. I spent half an hour with them going over it.”
“Humor me, Mina.” He palms sweat from his forehead, voice low and conspiratorial.
“Alice went upstairs to check on Mary and found her dead. Alice was— is —traumatized. This whole thing has been awful for her and now she’s lost her best friend as well.”
“Ex-friend, remember? But here’s the thing, Mina—according to her parents, Vicky had been stung by a wasp before a few years ago and had no reaction at all. Not even a rash. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“I suppose.”
“I want to show you something. Lock the door.”
He is reaching into his pocket as I flick the lock on the door and turn to face him. I catch sight of us both in the clouded mirror. Sam’s eyes are shuttered, without light. His hair is tangled and raked through and I can tell he hasn’t been sleeping. Beside him I’m vampiric, skin sallow-looking and hung with shadows, eyes darkly hooded. What a grim sight we both are, I think.
“I meant to show you yesterday but, well, with everything that happened—”
“What is it?”
“Here.” He hands me a matchbox. “Look inside.”
I slide open the little cardboard drawer but there are no matches inside. Instead, I see the tiny wax balls that were inside the witch’s bottle. Each one has been carefully slit open to reveal the curled husks of dead wasps.
“I know you told me not to open them but once I started I couldn’t stop. There’s nine in total.”
“Yes, but that bottle was created two, maybe three hundred years ago. We’ve already established that. It has nothing to do with what happened to Vicky.”
“You know what a familiar is, Mina? Bert was telling me about them last night when we were looking at that graffiti out there—‘Burn The Witch,’ it says—and he told me how witches kept pets that would do their bidding for them. Toads and rats and imps. It was often thought the familiars were given to the witch by the Devil. I know, I know.” He holds his hands up as if to ward off my protest. “If I’d heard myself saying this a few days ago, I would’ve wondered what was wrong with me.”
“Bert told you about familiars?” I lift out one of the small wax balls and hold it up to the light. It has been pricked so many times with a pin it looks like a pomander. “Did he mention anything about a Riddance festival at all?”
“A what?”
“Riddance. Some old custom Alice was telling me about. Something to do with bonfires, I think.”
Sam frowns.
“No, I don’t think so. I’d had a good bit of brandy by then, mind you. Heh. Bert could’ve danced a conga and I’m not sure I would have noticed.”
Something about that image, the absurdity of it, makes me snort with laughter. Sam grins as he leans his head against the cool glass of the window and peers out into the dark.
“I have to call this story in tomorrow. My editor wants it filed by Monday. What will I say?”
I nestle the fossilized wasp back into the matchbox beside the others and slide it closed. I can understand Sam’s consternation—three people are dead, and all of them are somehow tied to a girl who believes she is possessed by the spirit of a long-dead witch. To sensationalize it would be a body blow for Alice. She’d never get out from under the shadow of a story like that, even if she moved away. To downplay it would mean this has all been for nothing, and nothing would be solved.
“I don’t know, Sam. I honestly don’t.”
“The thing is, Mina, it’s not over. You can feel that, right?”
I know exactly what he means. The heavy air feels incendiary, ready to combust. Raised voices, fireworks, chanting. Alice in front of the chimney, rocking. Mary with her single bloody eye. Outside, the wind is picking up. A storm is coming.