Black Creek Crossing (47 page)

Ed Fletcher drew in a deep breath. “All right, Marty, suppose we do go ask Father Mike? What’s he going to tell us?”

Marty opened his mouth to speak a single word:
witchcraft.
But he couldn’t bring himself to utter it. Let them hear it from the priest; let them think it was the priest who was crazy. “You ask him,” Marty said once more. “Let him tell you.”

Chapter 41

NEVER HEARD SUCH A PILE OF CRAP IN MY LIFE.”

Father Mike Mulroney shrugged almost disinterestedly and offered Blake Baker a faint smile. When Baker and Ed Fletcher had rung the rectory bell half an hour ago, he’d been surprised to see them. Both of them were members of the Congregational church across the street, and as far as Mulroney knew, neither of them had ever set foot in his church. He had a vague memory of Fletcher’s wife, Joni, showing up a few times—mostly on Easter—but even that had stopped years ago, and he suspected that her churchgoing habits were dictated far more forcefully by her profession than her convictions, which meant that she too was now a Congregationalist. Thus, when two prominent members of the church across the street appeared at his front door on a Monday afternoon, he’d assumed it must be church business of some sort. After they told him how they’d come to be there, he decided that he was right, at least in an oddly abstract way. After all, the church these two men went to was the same one that burned Margaret and Forbearance Wynton several centuries ago.

Now, in response to Blake Baker’s crude summation of his remarks, Mulroney tipped his head in recognition that, despite their crudeness, he wasn’t going to utterly discount Baker’s words. “I’m just telling you the same thing I told Martin Sullivan last night,” he said, “which is nothing more than what I’ve read over the years about the history of the town.”

“It sounds like you expect us to believe in—what?” Ed Fletcher hesitated, searching for a better word than the one that came to mind. But he didn’t find one. “Witchcraft?” he finally said. “Come on, Father—this is the twenty-first century. We don’t believe in superstition anymore.”

Mulroney spread his hands. “The difference between faith such as yours and mine, and what people like us often like to call superstition, is something that seems to elude me more and more with each passing year.”

He rose from his chair, moved to the window, and gazed at the huge old oak tree that stood in the graveyard across the street like a great silent sentinel. “Doesn’t anything about that tree ever strike you as strange?” he asked. He turned back to the other two men. “Its canopy is almost perfectly round, which is peculiar in and of itself. Still, it could in part be accounted for by careful pruning, except the tree doesn’t show any signs of ever having been pruned at all. Also, according to every record I’ve been able to find, the tree was already there when the town was founded. The town was named after the tree, gentlemen, and that was more than three hundred and fifty years ago. Even the trees down at Oak Alley in Louisiana aren’t anywhere near that old.”

“So it’s old,” Blake Baker said. “And no one’s ever pruned it—so what?”

The priest shrugged. “Maybe nothing at all. I just find it curious that not only does the tree show no signs of ever being pruned, it shows no signs of ever having burned or been struck by lightning either.”

Ed Fletcher frowned. “Maybe it never has been.”

Father Mulroney met Fletcher’s gaze. “But it has, Ed. I’ve seen it myself. The storms that came up out of nowhere yesterday and a couple of days before that? I was watching, and that tree was struck half a dozen times. And there’s not a mark on it.”

For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty came into Blake Baker’s eyes. “Well, there’s got to be some kind of explanation. I mean, maybe—” But before he could go on, a gust of wind slammed into the rectory, and outside, a huge thunderhead took shape. “Jesus!” Baker said. “Where did that come from?”

As the sun vanished behind the dark cloud that seemed to have come literally out of nowhere, another blast of wind struck the rectory. The structure shuddered again, followed by a blinding flash of lightning and then a crash of thunder that rattled the windows. Blake Baker flinched under the onslaught, but Ed Fletcher remained where he was, gazing out the window.

“You see?” Father Mulroney said softly as rain began to slash down from the sky.

As if to underscore the priest’s question, another bolt of lightning shot out of the sky, lashing into the top of the great oak tree and vanishing in a shower of sparks as another clap of thunder exploded. The uncertainty in Blake Baker’s eyes coalesced into fear. “I don’t get it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “What’s going on?”

“According to the oldest legends in Roundtree,” Father Mulroney said almost placidly, “someone is practicing witchcraft even as we are talking.”

Baker’s eyes fixed on the priest. “Who?” he demanded.

Father Mulroney’s lips curved into a sardonic smile. “Wasn’t it you that just said something about all this being—what was it?” He hesitated, as if trying to remember the exact words, then continued. “Ah! ‘A pile of crap,’ I believe you said.”

Blake Baker ignored both the priest’s tone and his words. “If you know what’s going on, you’d better tell us,” he said, as yet a third bolt of lightning shot out of the sky, and the rectory once more trembled under the crash of thunder.

“According to the legends, it always comes from one place,” the priest said as the thunder died away. “The old house at Black Creek Crossing. And it always involves an adolescent girl.” Before either of the other men could say anything, there was a sharp rapping at the study door. “Come in,” Father Mulroney called, certain he knew who it was.

The door opened, and Myra Sullivan stepped in. “Father, what’s hap—” she began, but her words died on her lips as she saw the two men who were with the priest. “Ed?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering her question, Ed asked his own. “Did Angel go to school this morning?”

Myra’s eyes flicked from her brother-in-law to the priest. “What—” she began again, and this time was interrupted by Blake Baker.

“Angel?” he repeated. “That’s your daughter?”

Myra frowned. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Well, I don’t understand either,” Blake Baker stated, his voice hardening. “According to Father Mulroney, here, your kid’s some kind of witch or something, and—”

Myra turned to face Father Mulroney, her face ashen. “You’re a priest!” she breathed. “How could you say such a thing? How could you even think such a thing?”

“I didn’t say Angel is a witch, Myra. I—”

“You might as well have,” Baker fumed, wheeling on the priest. “And given the way my kid is acting, maybe she is!” He turned to Ed Fletcher. “I think it’s time you and I got to the bottom of whatever happened last night. I’m going over to the school and find Seth. If Zack was telling the truth, my boy’s in so much trouble, he’ll never forget it.” His furious eyes fixed on Myra. “And if I find out your girl was involved—”

“My Angel wouldn’t—”

But Blake Baker wasn’t listening and cut her off. “You coming, Ed?” he asked, and stormed out of the study without waiting for an answer. Ed Fletcher followed a moment later.

A shocked silence hung in the room as Myra Sullivan gazed at Father Mulroney in bewilderment. Finally the priest sighed, gently took her elbow, and guided her toward the front door. “School will be out in another twenty minutes,” he said quietly. “I think maybe you should be there. And I’d better go with you.”

Seth Baker had been thinking about it ever since lunch, when first Angel had taken off, then Chad, Zack, and Jared cornered him upstairs by his locker. If Mr. Lambert hadn’t come along—

But Mr. Lambert
had
come along, so his nose was still unbroken, his eyes unblackened, and his teeth intact. This afternoon, however, after school, things would be different. They wouldn’t come after him at school, of course, where one of the teachers might well see them. No, they’d wait until later, when they were all away from school, and corner him somewhere. And then, judging from the fury in Chad’s eyes after lunch, they’d give him a beating that would be far worse than anything his father had ever given him.

At least his father only hit him with the belt.

Chad and Zack—and maybe even Jared—would come at him with anything that came to hand.

He knew it wouldn’t do any good to just hang around after school either. By now, Zack would have told everyone he knew to keep an eye on him, and even if he outwaited everyone, sooner or later they’d lock up the school and he’d have to leave. And Chad would be waiting, with Zack—his head bandaged—right beside him. He would have no chance at all. It was all Seth thought about through fifth period, and during the break before his history class he knew people were watching him, whispering, and he wished he could just disappear.

Like Angel had disappeared. But where had she gone?

Then, when he saw the flash of light through the window at the far end of the corridor, followed so quickly by the crash of thunder that he knew the lightning had struck within a block or two of the school, he knew where Angel had gone. She was in the cabin, and the fire was burning on the hearth, and the old wrought-iron kettle was heating. And Seth knew what he had to do.

Instead of going to his sixth period history class, he hurried back to his locker, packed everything he needed into his backpack, and headed down the stairs at the far end of the corridor. As the bell rang signaling the beginning of the last class of the day, he pushed the door open and stepped out into the breaking storm.

Another jagged bolt of lightning ripped out of the roiling clouds overhead as he started down the steps, and Seth watched as it slashed to the ground over by the old cemetery. As the thunderclap exploded around him, he dashed across the street, ducking his head against the pouring rain. By the time he reached the corner of Black Creek Road, he was already soaked to the skin, but he didn’t care. He was away from the school, and away from Chad, Zack, and all the rest of them.

For now, at least, he was safe.

It had taken him almost fifteen minutes to get out to the head of the trail that would lead him to the cabin, and by then he was shivering with the cold and the slashing downpour nearly blinded him. He had to step off the road twice to avoid oncoming cars; both times, he was about to duck into the woods to avoid someone stopping to ask him what he was doing out in the raging storm, but the cars didn’t even slow down. Apparently the drivers were having as much difficulty seeing through the storm as he was.

At the trailhead, he turned off the road and began slogging through the squishy mire the path had already become. Finally, he gave up on the path and edged his way alongside it, weaving through the trees and pushing through the thickets, but never moving so far from the path that he lost sight of it. Soon his shoes were as soggy as his clothes and heavy with mud.

Still, the canopy of the forest gave him a little protection from the rain, and the flashes of lightning came often enough so that even under the blackness of the sky and the even deeper darkness of the forest, he was able to keep track of where he was.

At last he came to the clearing on the far side of which he saw the berm of shattered granite. He searched for any sign of smoke coming from the chimney of the tiny cabin, but the darkness of the day and the fury of the storm made it impossible to see anything.

He climbed to the top of the berm and looked down to the spot where the cabin was hidden.

And saw nothing at all.

It was as if the weathered wall of the cabin had vanished into the rock.

But that was impossible! He’d already been to the cabin three times. And this was the right spot—he was sure of it!

As another flash of lightning slashed across the sky, and the roar of thunder echoed off the sheer granite face of the cliff, Seth began scrambling down the mound of rubble.

His left foot caught between two rocks, and he choked back a yelp of pain as his ankle twisted. A moment later he worked his foot loose, twisted it experimentally a couple of times, then continued on down.

And found that the cabin was still there.

Indeed, he could see a faint glimmer of yellowish light flickering in the crack under the door.

He moved forward, hesitated, then pushed the door open.

For a moment he saw nothing in the dim light inside, but then his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

A fire was burning on the hearth, and above it the ancient kettle was already steaming.

Houdini was sitting near the hearth, his tail wrapped around him. As his eyes met Seth’s, the cat rose and moved toward him.

Angel was sitting at the table, the red leather-bound book open before her. As Seth stepped inside, she looked up.

She smiled.

“I knew you’d come,” she said.

In the warmth of the cabin, the pain in Seth’s ankle melted away, and so did the shivering that had seized his body.

He was safe.

At least for a while . . .

Phil Lambert glowered at the storm raging outside. When he woke that morning to see a cloudless sky with no trace of the sudden squalls that had been cropping up during the last week, he’d decided to get in a couple of hours of fly-fishing on the creek after school. He even put his rod and creel—along with his waders and his favorite fishing hat—in the car so he could get out as soon after the last bell as possible. And all day, the weather had held—a perfect fall day with a brilliant sun hanging in an utterly cloudless sky. And then, barely an hour before the day would be over, the sky suddenly turned black, a flash of lightning startling him so badly that he slopped coffee all over the report he was preparing for the superintendent. And then the whole school trembled under the thunderclap that struck before the lightning even faded fully away. Which meant that instead of spending two quiet hours trying to tease the trout in Black Creek into snapping at one of his hand-tied flies, he would instead spend those same two hours in his office, working on the endless mass of reports that his job seemed to have devolved down to.