Chapter 1 #2
“Governor Phips, of the Province of Massachusetts Bay, dissolved the Court of Oyer and Terminer in October of 1692, and when his wife was accused, he really stepped in! By May of 1693, all of the accused had been pardoned,” Angela put in dryly. “He thought that ‘spectral evidence’ was …”
“Bull?” Jackson offered.
“Yeah, that kind of describes it!” Skye said. “But being pardoned didn’t help everyone. You had to pay for prison, for chains if you were bound; some people couldn’t pay, and they rotted and died in prison.”
“So sad,” Angela murmured. “But again, the whole thing was horrible; so many people around the world were accused and—oh!”
She stopped speaking, looking dismayed.
Skye looked at her curiously. They were friends; they’d become so when Jackson had called her in for an interview with himself and Adam Harrison—and naturally, the master of research, fieldwork, and more, Angela.
At that time, Jackson had asked her point-blank about her strange ability to find the truth on many cases, admitting he and Angela and the Krewe had their own strange truths.
He was a striking man, a mix of Native American and Northern European heritage, with strong cheekbones, dark hair, and light eyes, a man whose strength was often in his compassion.
And Angela …
Well, she was a beautiful, tall, shapely blonde—and didn’t look like a law enforcement official, one who could take down the worst of the worst.
Which she had often done.
And now …
Now, after the interview, and knowing her, they had called on her because of her “special talent,” her strange ability to see the past. A talent Skye, of course, never usually shared with others, since she knew too well what they might think about what she tried to explain or describe, and she wasn’t fond of the idea of being sent to a mental institution.
“You had a … vision, I imagine,” Jackson said. “Anything—”
“I know,” Skye said. She smiled at him. “I saw one of the days when executions took place. And I could hear people’s thoughts, and it was a lot like it’s been throughout history—people know something is wrong, but they’re afraid to speak up, lest they be persecuted, too.”
“Time passes, but we’re still human beings,” Angela said quietly. “And we can still be very cruel.”
“Nazi Germany,” Jackson murmured. “Many, many people knew that extermination of their neighbors was wrong—but they were terrified of winding up in a concentration camp themselves.”
“Exactly,” Skye murmured. She knew now that Jackson, Angela, and the Krewe of Hunters were capable of seeing—and talking to—the spirits of the dead who, for one reason or another, didn’t move on.
“Were you, um, able to talk to anyone who might have been useful in the current situation?” she asked.
Jackson shook his head. “I wonder … if those who are wrongfully persecuted aren’t …
Well, we do believe there is a heaven; and I think maybe those who suffer so much, who have their lives so wrongfully taken, might get …
I don’t know.” He glanced at Angela. “We have met those who were killed in wars and who have remained, but in this case … I think they may get to have peace immediately. And anyway …”
He looked at Angela.
“And,” Angela said, “while we’re always aware that history is important—seriously, the poet, essayist, novelist and philosopher George Santayana said it best, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ We can’t live in the past—but we can learn from it. When we let ourselves!
“But history—well, history over which we have no control—is not why we’re here!” Angela continued. “Skye, I’m so sorry. Maybe this was really wrong of us. We don’t mean to be torturing you—”
“No, no! Seriously, no. Sure, thinking about what happened here creates a heavy heart in anyone. But—” Skye began.
“We can’t let ourselves be weighed down in the many, many cruelties of history!” Angela murmured. “Not when we brought you here specifically today for history that occurred yesterday!”
“Right. New history is the reason we’re here,” Jackson said. “Skye, if you’re sure you’re all right with this—”
“Hey! Okay, I’ve never admitted the truth to any of my coworkers or agents or bosses, but I’ve been working in the NYC office for almost three years. I’m good with what I do!” Skye protested.
“And you can be even better, working with people with whom you can be honest,” Jackson assured her. “Let’s head on over to the Bolton house and see … what you can see there.”
The Bolton house wasn’t one of Salem’s eighteen “first period houses,” but the base for the house itself had been there since the late 1600s—but that was just the foundation and a few walls.
The house, as it stood today, did date back to the latter part of the eighteenth century; it was a beautiful and historic home.
It had been lovingly tended by the Bolton family through the centuries.
Mike Bolton had turned the house over to his grandson, Justin Bolton, just the year before, since they had lost Justin’s parents years ago when he’d been a teenager.
Mike’s son died from cancer, and his daughter-in-law died from a heart condition.
A widower, Mike Bolton had helped his grandson make his way through college.
When Justin’s second child had been born, Mike had convinced his grandson it was time for something bigger than the apartment they lived in downtown.
Mike reminded him that the house was historic, and the family had cared for it for years and years, and now it was Justin’s turn.
Justin had accepted the responsibility, but he hadn’t wanted his grandfather to move out.
So they’d arranged for a family apartment to be created out of the old garage or old carriage house.
Justin, his wife, Alicia, and their children could reside in the main house, but Mike never needed to be far away—or worse, alone.
They had been a happy family because with Mike there, neither Justin nor Alicia had to worry if they ran late at work and the nanny needed to get going because she was taking classes. Mike was more than capable of watching the kids for an hour or so.
But Alicia had returned from work one day to find her grandfather-in-law dead in the carriage house—and their nanny, along with their oldest child, Jeremy, age five, were gone. No note, no possible explanation. They were just …
Gone.
She found their baby, Lily Marie, just eleven months old, alone and terrified, crying in the playpen.
Alicia had naturally been terrified and in a panic herself, but smart enough to call 911 first, and then her husband before she had, by all accounts, broken down completely.
It had been her husband, Justin, who had forced down his emotions to give them all the information they did have—the nanny was Patricia Yale, just twenty, a student at the local college.
She was a young woman who had grown up in foster care, but had done exceptionally well with her studies while working at the same time.
She loved children, especially both the baby and Jeremy, and they loved her.
She had worked for another family in the area who had used Patricia frequently for date nights, and they had recommended her to Alicia and Justin Bolton with glowing praise.
Jeremy was a smart little five-year-old. He knew his parents’ phone numbers and his home address. He was a loving child who was always eager to meet people, but they had tried to teach him a little about stranger danger.
But nothing was heard from little Jeremy, and Patricia had not returned to the apartment where she lived with three other college-aged friends.
Because there had been no explanation and no clues to be discovered in the hours that came after what the ME had classified as a murder—not a death—in the house, Lieutenant Gavin Bruns, a friend of Jackson’s from a situation years before, had called on the Krewe of Hunters.
Skye had looked Bruns up online, since he had been the one to call on Jackson and allow for the Krewe, or “Feds,” to come in.
He was a man in his midthirties and had risen swiftly within the department, mainly because of his expertise in weighing a situation, using logic, and never attempting to micromanage those with him.
Jackson Crow was a keen observer of people.
And Skye knew now Jackson had been watching her and her investigations, interviewed her, and knew that while she wasn’t “different” in the way that he and the Krewe were, she was “different” in her own way, and so …
Here she was.
For this case, Jackson had arranged for Skye to be “on loan” from the NYC field office.
But she also knew Jackson had other plans for her.
He was creating yet another special unit within the Bureau with the help of Adam Harrison, a man who had lost a beloved son with special abilities and thus had begun to put the true but unimaginable together and … get things done!
“Onward! To the Bolton house. In truth, I’m happy to be here,” Skye assured them.
“I came often while I was growing up—back then, I had lots of family in the area. I met several true wiccans. Laurie Cabot brought the first Witch Shoppe to Salem in the early 1970s, my mom said, and there were a lot of people who were practicing wiccans at the time—not people who did any harm. Wiccans wouldn’t.
Kind of like voodoo—doing anything evil would come back by a factor of three on the person who did. ”
“Crow Haven Corner is still here, but with different owners, I think. If I’m not mistaken, Laurie may still be involved,” Jackson told her. “Anyway, it is a fascinating town. There’s more history, too—”
“Seafarers!” Skye said. “Pirates and more!”
They’d reached the car, and continued chatting on the way, but it wasn’t much of a drive to the Bolton house.
Crime scene tape remained on the door, but it had been broken. Someone was already in the house.