The Hexed

  “All right—age ranges?” Jenna asked.

  “I’d say anyone who was fifteen and up at the time of Melissa’s murder,” Rocky said.

  “That young?” Sam asked, then shook his head ruefully. “Yeah, you’re right—that young. Sad to say.”

  Jack left them to speak with his officers, Sam settled in to go back over the missing-persons reports, Jenna started finessing the computer and the other three each took one of the victims’ files and started back over it, looking for any detail that might have been missed before now.

  * * *

  With Auntie Mina there in the house to keep it from feeling so empty, Devin found that her work seemed to fly, but Aunt Mina had more for her to do once she got a good look at her herb garden.

  Aunt Mina shook her head. “You know, a lot of old wives’ tales are just that, but not all. A lot of what our ancestors thought was good for us really was. The garden needs work.”

  “I’ve only been back a few months, Auntie Mina,” Devin reminded her. “But I’ll go out and pull some weeds right now.”

  “You will do no such thing! You’ve got to remain inside—and be vigilant,” Aunt Mina said.

  Devin had been careful. Very careful. But the two murdered women had been killed in different parts of town, only one of them near her house. And if they were counting the girl who had died thirteen years ago, she’d been killed in Peabody.

  “I don’t believe I’m in any danger, Auntie,” Devin said. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was talking to herself. Seriously, how easy was it to imagine her aunt, who had been such a huge part of her life, might be lingering at the cottage that had been her home?

  But Rocky had seen her, too.

  It was amazing; Rocky had...something special. A sense about such things. It made her feel closer to him, somehow.

  She realized that she’d forgotten to call Brent and make reservations for tonight’s tour. She grabbed her phone and was relieved to find out there was still room for them.

  He told her to be there by 7:45 p.m., then said casually, “I looked him up, by the way.”

  “What?”

  “I ran a search on your friend. He is from Peabody, and he was a big shot on the high school football team. Then a girl he knew was murdered and he just quit playing. They say he was headed for the NFL.”

  “I guess he didn’t care that much about a pro career.” She had the feeling he had decided that going into law enforcement was more important—especially after losing a friend that way.

  “He looks like he still plays. Bet the guy spends half his life in a gym.”

  “I don’t know. We’re friends, but—”

  “I don’t trust him, Devin,” Brent warned her.

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “His friend dies, he goes away. I can trace him through college and then...he disappears. I found some of his classes. You’ve got to hear the titles. Things like ‘Women Who Kill,’ ‘Defining the Psychotic Mind’...the list goes on.”

  “He majored in criminology,” Devin said.

  “Yeah? Are you sure he didn’t major in being a criminal?”

  Devin kept her mouth shut. Rocky hadn’t told the others what he did for a living, and though she didn’t think he was trying to hide it—he wasn’t here undercover or anything—it didn’t seem like it was her place to say anything.

  “He’s a good guy, Brent,” she said.

  “Don’t be fooled just because you think he’s hot.”

  “Brent!”

  “Okay, sorry. But friends have to look after friends. And I’m just saying, he leaves after a friend is killed—he comes back and two women are murdered.”

  “I don’t believe he was back in the area yet when Carly Henderson was killed.”

  “You may not believe,” Brent said, “but you don’t know.”

  He hung up before she could reply. Exasperated, she almost called him back to tell him she wasn’t coming.

  But she didn’t.

  She was about to get back to work when her phone rang. Rocky. He wanted her to know that two of his fellow agents were on the way. One was a sketch artist who wanted to work with Aunt Mina.

  “What?” Devin said.

  “She wants to work with your aunt,” he repeated.

  She stared at the phone. “My aunt is dead.”

  “That’s fine. They won’t mind. They’re both great, and I know you’ll like them. So will your aunt.” She felt his hesitation before he spoke again. “We’re all with a special unit of the FBI, Devin. The Krewe was formed because there are people out there who can see and talk to the dead. By working together, we’re able to do better work. We don’t have to pretend to one another, or come up with some ridiculous explanation for why we know something. And of course, as we’re seeing, it doesn’t solve everything. Some souls do stay as ghosts, and some don’t, but...well, I can’t tell you how great it is that you’re one of us.”

  “One of you?”

  “That you can see,” he added quietly.

  “Yes, I suppose. I mean...it’s not easy.”

  “No,” he agreed. “See you soon.”

  That was all. He was gone.

  And he hadn’t given her much warning. She’d barely hung up when she heard the doorbell chime.

  “Who is it, dear?” Aunt Mina called from the back room, where she was watching television.

  “Two more FBI agents, Auntie.”

  Aunt Mina giggled. “I’ll behave. I promise.”

  “No,” Devin said dryly. “They’re coming to see you.”

  “How lovely,” Aunt Mina said.

  Devin wasn’t sure that any of it was lovely at all. She gave her aunt a weak smile and went to the door, looking carefully through the peephole before opening it. The two women on her doorstep were attractive and dressed in what people called business casual. The blonde introduced herself as Angela Hawkins, and the brunette was Jane Everett, the forensic artist.

  To Devin’s absolute astonishment, even though she knew from what Rocky had told her that they could see ghosts, they greeted Aunt Mina as if she were as corporeal as they were.

  But she prepared coffee and tea, then―when she wasn’t quick enough and Aunt Mina reminded her that they should offer their guests something to eat―went back to the kitchen and found some scones.

  Jane was sitting on the sofa with Auntie Mina, working on a sketch as Aunt Mina described the woman she’d seen. Angela smiled at Devin and said softly, “It looks like you’re in shock.”

  Devin admitted, “A little.”

  “Are you having trouble accepting your gift?”

  “I’m not sure I see this as a gift,” Devin said.

  “Have you seen spirits before? Before your aunt’s reappearance, I mean?” Angela asked her.

  “She did, she just didn’t admit that she did,” Aunt Mina piped in. “Comes from me, of course. And my family line. It skips a generation in our family. But the ability is very strong in Devin.”

  “Now, Miss Lyle, I need you to focus,” Jane said.

  “Of course, dear, of course,” Aunt Mina said.

  Angela grinned at Devin. “So...you accepted your talent late, I take it? Not to worry—many of us did. And it’s not always easy to understand what’s really going on, since there are spirits out there we never see, and others are shy or just haven’t learned yet how to make themselves visible—not to mention audible―to the living. Even the most gifted among us.” She shook her head and smiled. “Those of us in the Krewes have been at this awhile, and we still don’t understand everything. We try, and then we hope for the best.”

  Devin glanced over at her aunt. “I don’t know what to think. Aunt Mina saw a woman in Puritan dress. It might have been an actress, of course—there are reenactors all around the city. But...if she saw a ghost, what would that mean? Whoever the killer is, he or she might have been around thirteen years ago—but not three-hundred-plus years ago.”

  “No, that’s very tr
ue. But if we can identify the woman you found or your aunt’s Puritan, we might be able to find out how they’re related, and that could help us solve our case.”

  “Okay,” Jane announced, breaking into the conversation. “Here’s what I have so far,” she said, then turned her sketch pad around, showing them what she’d drawn.

  The woman in the sketch was pretty and delicate. She had fine features, and large, light-colored eyes. She wore the cap typical of the Puritans and a white pinafore over a dark dress.

  “Close?” she asked Aunt Mina.

  Aunt Mina sighed softly. “Close? She’s nearly exact. But I’ve never seen her before—or since—that night.”

  “Have you ever seen her?” Jane asked, looking at Devin.

  “No, I don’t know her,” Devin said.

  “Well, then, I guess we’re set here,” Jane said. She rose and smiled at Devin. “You have a lovely home,” she said.

  Devin didn’t respond. It was still Aunt Mina’s home, really.

  But Aunt Mina seemed to be disappearing.

  “Thank you,” Devin said distractedly, her eyes on her aunt’s fading form.

  Jane followed the direction of her gaze and said sympathetically, “It takes a lot to appear and speak, and your aunt had to really focus to give us so much information. She’ll be back.”

  “Don’t be startled when she arrives out of the blue,” Angela warned.

  “Oh, I’ve gotten used to her,” Devin said.

  Jane and Angela got set to leave, and Devin walked them to the door. When she opened it, she had to stifle a scream.

  Because standing there was Rocky.

  “Hey, how did it go?” he asked.

  Jane produced her drawing. Rocky studied it for a long moment. Then he looked at Devin. “Anyone you’ve ever seen before?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t know her.”

  “We’ll find her,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “Thank you,” he told Jane. “Are you ready?” he asked Devin.

  “For?”

  “It’s after seven,” he said. “The tours all start around eight, right?”

  “Oh!” she said, amazed that the afternoon had gone by so quickly. “Oh.”

  “So...ready to go?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” She turned to the other two agents. “Would you like to join us? Brent is a friend of mine, he won’t mind.”

  “We were going to go back to the hotel and assess what we have so far,” Jane said. “I think a tour—a refresher course—of the city’s history is actually a good idea, but we’ll go another night. Witchcraft does seem to be the key to solving this case, doesn’t it?”

  Devin didn’t let herself reply, reminding herself that Jane wasn’t attacking the city’s Wiccan community, only stating the obvious. Because one way or another, witchcraft was at the heart of these killings.

  It was the pentagrams found on the victims.

  Devin grabbed her purse, let the others out ahead of her and locked the door. The other women took their rental, and she went in Rocky’s car. As they drove, he seemed preoccupied.

  “Your friends—your coworkers—are very nice.”

  He flashed her a smile. “They are. I’m just getting to know them myself. But what I know already is that they’re pretty amazing.”

  “Oh.”

  “New assignment,” he told her. “I just joined the Krewe. I’d been working across the country.”

  “It must feel strange to come home to...this,” she said.

  “Not at all—I asked for this assignment.”

  Of course, he had. He had said it: he was haunted. Had been for years.

  And now...

  “Have you come up with anything?” she asked him, then smiled. “Or is that classified?”

  “We’ve followed every lead, and we’re running some computer searches. But as to answers...no, none yet.”

  “It makes sense that you wanted a sketch of the woman Aunt Mina saw.”

  He glanced her way. “Of course. I’m trying to figure out how the victims are chosen, because I do believe there’s a reason they’re being targeted. I just keep thinking...our killer’s not a sexual sadist. The women aren’t being molested. It’s more like a ritual—a sacrifice.”

  “Which is more proof that the killer’s not Wiccan. Today’s Wiccans don’t sacrifice—no matter what the Druids might have done. And if you’re looking to history to clarify what’s going on, the accused at the witch trials weren’t even witches. They were the innocent victims of paranoia. So if you think tonight’s tour is going to point a finger at the big bad witches, think again.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then...?”

  “I don’t know. But I keep feeling... Well, I have been gone awhile. I just keep thinking that something in tonight’s tour will dislodge a clue from my memory.”

  “Well, you’ll like Brent’s tour even if it doesn’t solve the case for you. There’s no hocus-pocus. No pun intended.”

  Brent’s tour began at the Salem Witch Trials Memorial and ended at his shop—which, being a clever businessman, he opened for business as soon as they arrived.

  It was a busy night. Over twenty people had gathered to take the tour. As they waited, Devin watched Rocky’s face. He was listening intently to those around them.

  “I don’t think tourists really have to worry, do you?” one woman asked another.

  “No, of course not. The victims were all locals,” her friend replied.

  “They haven’t identified the second victim yet,” a man standing nearby pointed out. “And if she were local, wouldn’t someone know her? They posted her picture in the paper, and it’s been all over TV.”

  “Hush, Henry, the children,” said his wife.

  “They need to know to stay with us at all times,” Henry said gruffly.

  “How do you feel about the memorial? Or do you remember when it wasn’t here?” Rocky asked Devin.

  “Yes, I remember,” she told him, grinning. “You’re not that much older than I am.” She’d been very young when it had been erected for the tricentennial of the trials, but it had been a big deal in town, the kind of thing that stuck in your memory.

  There was always controversy when the powers that be made a big change in town, but Devin personally liked the little area—adjacent to the cemetery—where twenty individual stone benches were each engraved with the name of one of those who was executed during the witch craze, nineteen of them hanged and Giles Corey pressed to death. Most tours began here, but she particularly liked the way Brent began his tours at this spot, with the real history of the time and an explanation of the situation.

  The memorial was atmospheric at night; the moon and city lights cast a glow over the graveyard—closed at dusk, but easily visible over the low stone fence. None of the victims was buried there in the Old Burying Point Cemetery, but Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ancestor—John Hathorne, the only witch trial judge never to repent of his actions—was interred near the memorial. Sometimes a low fog would roll in, which made the stories especially poignant and a bit eerie.

  “Hey! You two made it. And on time,” Brent said, smiling, as he found them in the crowd.

  “I’m always on time, Brent,” Devin said.

  “That’s right—Beth is the one who never seems to know what time it is,” Brent said. “I’m glad you’re here,” he told Rocky. Suddenly he turned around and started coughing.

  “Brent, are you sick?” Devin asked him.

  “Allergy. And I don’t even know to what,” Brent said with disgust. “But if I yell for help, you take over, okay? And you might as well have a seat while I do my intro.”

  Devin sat with Rocky on the bench dedicated to Bridget Bishop. She’d always felt empathy for Bridget—she’d actually worn a color other than black at times and had some sass in her. It had proved to be her undoing.

  Brent stepped forward, welcoming the crowd, checking his watch—and moving right into his first speech. r />
  “If we’re going to think about the deaths of people, first we have to think about the lives they were living. So think about Salem back then—a divided place, one town loosely divided into Salem and Salem Village. The first was near the coast—more urban. The second was made up mainly of farmland. The farmers closest to town didn’t want to break away. They were economically tied to the seaport. Others wanted to separate and make Salem Village an official town of its own.

  “The Putnam family—one of the most affluent in the area—wanted to separate. To that end they hired Reverend Samuel Parris to come and lead services near them. If that didn’t make relations with those in town bad enough, they gave Parris a house and grounds to go with the stipend and firewood they provided. That seemed outrageous to people who felt a minister shouldn’t be compensated to such an unheard-of degree. So even before the claims of witchcraft and pacts with the devil began, the community was at odds.

  “On top of that, remember that it was winter. If you’ve been here for a Massachusetts winter, you know it can be brutal. Imagine winter with no electricity and only a fire for warmth. Such darkness and cold. Not so long ago they had been at war with the Indians, and many still found the woods a terrifying place. There was a devil out there, the strict Puritans believed, and he was ready to seize those who showed signs of moral weakness. And anything fun was a sure sign of sin. I’ve got to say, I’m awfully glad there aren’t any Puritans still living in the area today.”

  Laughter followed Brent’s last statement. He grinned and looked at Devin. “Pipe in here for a minute, will you?”

  She was surprised. Brent loved to tell his stories. She started to demur, but then, as he pointed to his throat and reached for a bottle of water, she remembered what he’d said earlier about helping out. By then, the crowd had turned to her, and Brent, coughing, had turned away.

  Devin stood and stepped forward. “So, leading up to the accusations, arrests and trials, you had dissension in town, with those who were close to town and didn’t want to separate refusing to pay certain taxes—taxes that paid to build the new minister’s house and on Samuel Parris’s property. Now, I don’t think that the young women in his house were horrible people. And why the elders let things go so far, we’ll never know. Somehow a number of books on fortune-telling—prophesy—began to circulate among the young people in the community. I imagine they were greeted with the same enthusiasm as Harry Potter, Twilight or The Hunger Games. Remember, they weren’t allowed to dance, and even hide-and-seek was considered a game for the idle.