Bones of a Witch (19 page)

“Yes, but it just takes one or two individuals
to change that. Christianity began with Jesus; Islam has Muhammad
and Judaism has Abraham and Moses. Just one or two Individuals, you
see, that’s all it takes. The pagan religion of Wicca, and by
extension witchcraft, is among the fastest growing religions in the
world. What do you suppose would happen if they found a martyr? If
paganism realizes the worldwide success of Christianity, Judaism
and Islam then soon we will have no more souls in which to fight
over. Wars will cease to exist. Hatred for others will yield to
tolerance and understanding.”

“You have got to be kidding me. First of all,
you’re putting a lot of stock into something that most people find
ridiculous, and secondly—that’s…that’s ridiculous in
itself.”

“Is it? Tell that to Christ, Muhammad and
Moses.”

“So what are you saying: that Satan’s survival
depends upon others believing in him? If they stop believing he
will cease to exist?”

“Exactly.”

“Then by your definition, he and Santa Clause
share the same misfortune: in that they never really existed at
all.”

“Silence,” he barked, and I watched his face
flush red with fury. “You’re twisting my words. The Devil is real
and so is the God that shall forsake your soul for the blasphemy
you spew here tonight.”

“And what about you? Do you believe that your
pact with the devil will save your soul from his eternal
fires?”

Hilton leaned forward in his seat and the dome
light above cast a shadow on his face that only Lucifer himself
could find pleasing. “The Devil needs His mercenaries like God
needs His angels. We are agents in a surrogate war and our places
in the afterworld have been secured.”

“Then I hope you’re right, Pastor Hilton,
because the devil you know is the devil within. And you know in
your heart where that devil belongs.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you make your own bed; be it
stone or straw, you shall lie in it one day and
forever.”

Hilton eased back in his seat, glaring at me as
if I had just predicted his eminent demise. I smiled at him as
though I had. We maintained that posture for the duration of the
short ride to Gallows Hill. When the limo stopped, he hopped out
and waited for Putnam to come around before instructing me to exit,
too.

“End of the road,” said Putnam, his demeanor
more jovial than that of Hilton’s. But I figured I still had enough
time to work on that one too.

The place they took me looked nothing like I
imagined it would. Barely a slope on the horizon with a lone tree
standing in the middle of nowhere. I saw no buildings nearby, save
for an old brick church in the distance, its steeple silhouetted
against a low one-quarter moon—maybe the same church Ursula Bishop
saw as they lowered the noose around her neck. Just then, a breeze
kicked up, dryer and more brisk in the open, I thought, than back
at the barn, and the chill that ran through my bones from it
ushered in a sense of urgency that I had neglected to realize
before. It made me wonder where Tony was; why Spinelli hadn’t
pulled some sort of GPS locater out of his ass and trained it on
mine yet, and if Carlos hadn’t made them stop for Twinkies and
cupcakes a half dozen times on their way out to Salem.

After shutting the car door, Hilton spun me
around and pointed me in the direction of the slope. “Move,” he
said, and gave me a nudge. I stood my ground like a mule, but when
Putnam shoved me even harder, I gave in and started that way. We
marched up the slope toward the tree: me, Putnam and Hilton; beside
us, three dim moon shadows stretched grotesquely long and barely
visible. Still I could see from the shapes of them that Putnam had
his pistol pointed at the small of my back. I kept thinking if I
could somehow get my hands around front and pull the witch’s stone
from my neck, then I could make something happen, maybe pull some
jujitsu on Putnam and wrestle the gun from his hand. But no such
opportunity presented itself, and soon we were at the tree, which
incidentally, seemed much bigger up close than it did down by the
limo. And coincidentally or not, the lowest, thickest branch came
with a heavy rope and hangman’s noose around it already. On the
ground sat a wooden pail, upside-down and situated directly below
the noose: a perfect jumping off point to be sure.

“Nice,” I said of the set-up, giving an
approving nod, “and convenient, too.”

Hilton seemed none too amused. He pointed to
the bucket. “Come on then. Let’s get this over with. Get up on the
bucket.”

“What, don’t I get a last smoke?”

“You smoke?”

“No, but I’m thinking of starting.”

“Get up there.”

He motioned for Putnam to help me up, which he
did, and then he lowered the noose around my neck and pulled the
slack from the line.

“Easy,” I said. “Don’t mess the
hair.”

But he did. The two men stepped back some four
to five feet, adopting a rigid posture as if about to salute me.
But then Hilton broke out what I thought was a bible, only the
words he read from it were like none I had ever heard from any
church-goer before. At first I thought he was reading Latin or
reciting Macaronic verses from a long-forgotten text. But soon the
words found translation in modern vernacular and I knew then that
these two were as loopy as they come.

“Whence ye cometh matters
not,”
he began,
“thy blood doeth feed this sacred tree. Darkness born of
shallow hearts split but thrice yet not for thee. Curse this body
as thy will; devour all and save the least; let evil lie in patient
wait within the belly of the beast.”

He concluded by kissing the opened page and
offering the book up to the sky. I cleared my throat to get his
attention, and when he looked at me I said, “I think the fellow
you’re praying to is down there.” I motioned at the ground. He
snapped the book closed and ordered Putnam to kick the bucket out
from under me.

What happened next happened so
fast that I’m still not sure of the exact sequence of events.
Putnam started towards me, so I shifted my weight onto one foot,
and just as he came within striking distance I reached out and
kicked him in the balls. Now, I have to tell you that I have kicked
men in the balls before. It’s something I don’t necessarily like to
do, as I understand it hurts like hell, but in the past I have used
that maneuver to fend off a number of unwanted advances from men
who thought they had something I needed and which they intended to
give me, like it or not. In those cases, such a well-placed kick
usually produced a groan or a yelp like a dog whose tail had just
been mashed under the rails of a rocking chair. Then, inevitably,
the man would drop to his knees holding his package, keel over onto
his side and roll up tightly in a fetal position crying the usual
obscenities:
Fuck, Motherfucker,
Goddamn
, and my favorite,
Goddamn Motherfucker
.
It’s such a mechanical response. Poetry in motion, really. The only
problem is that that’s not what happened to J.T. Putnam. I don’t
know; maybe the old bird hasn’t any balls, or they’re just too
small to hit. Either way it required additional fast
thinking.

After getting kicked in the groin, J.T. did
stagger back a bit, but did not follow through with the other
poetic sequential steps as expected. He regained footing
immediately and came at me, this time with his hands protecting his
inguinal region. I don’t know, maybe he thought that was as high as
I could kick. No one said the man was a genius. I waited until he
was nearly on top of me and then high-kicked him square in the jaw.
He staggered back considerably further this time before tripping
over a root stump and falling flat on his ass. Hilton, perhaps
sensing Putnam incapable of carrying out the task, started towards
me to finish the job himself. Instinctively, I buckled my knees and
brought them to my chest, effectively dropping my weight onto the
rope and temporarily hanging myself. I know, ironic, isn’t
it?

With my body suspended, I was able to swing my
hands under my feet and bring them around to my front. Now, my
boots came down on the bucket again, Hilton stepped into my circle
of reach. I turned my hands outward and drove the heel of my palm
home with an uppercut to the base of his nose. His head recoiled
upon impact. His arms began flailing in windmill fashion and like
Putnam, an involuntary retreat sent him staggering backwards, but
not before I snatched the golden crucifix from his
chain.

But I was still not out of the woods yet, for
even as Hilton was going down, Putnam was recovering. He rebounded
on his feet, and like a charging bull came straight at
me.

Now then, I’m not saying that I am completely
innocent in matters where death and my name have shared bylines in
the same sentence, but this was different. I had no alternative but
to do what I did next, so don’t judge me. Besides, I think you’d
approve.

Putnam’s charge was fierce enough to knock me
off the bucket, and in fact did. He tackled me around the waist
and, whether intended or not, managed to kick the bucket out from
under me while doing so, sending it wandering down the grassy slope
in a clumsy tumble. To make matters worse, the perverted slob kept
a wrestler’s hold around my waist so that at times, depending on
his footing, both his weight and mine were suspended from the rope
around my neck.

This is the part I’m not at all proud of, but
as I mentioned; it was necessary. I still had Hilton’s crucifix
clutched within in my bound hands. Putnam’s arms were around my
waist, his head tucked neatly under my left arm. We were spinning
freely, swaying under the tree branch and kicking up enough dust to
choke a horse. In the sporadic glimpses whirling by me, I saw
Hilton working to get back on his feet, his bloodied nose spotting
his gray beard a crimson red. I knew then I was dead if I didn’t
react quickly. The noose would not let me see Putnam, but that
didn’t matter. I knew where to strike. I tightened my grip around
the golden crucifix, and as hard as I could, I stabbed Putnam in
the backside of the neck. He let out the scream I had expected
earlier when I kicked him in the balls, but for me it was still not
loud enough. So I pulled the pointed cross out of his neck and
stabbed him again. Then I repeated the measure, thrusting with
greater might each time while moving from his neck and down his
back until finally his arms went slack and he fell to the ground at
my feet. I stood on his body, taking my weight off the rope, but
feeling as though the noose still owned me. So I dropped the
crucifix and freed myself from its insufferable grip.

By this time Hilton had found his footing,
shaky though it was; the old man showed remarkable persistence. He
started toward me, but then suddenly stopped. At first, I thought
he had reconsidered his assault after seeing me reach for the
crucifix again, but I was wrong. Something had stolen his
attention. I followed his gaze to a bare patch of ground where
Putnam had been standing. There in the dirt lay his revolver, which
Hilton had already begun making a move for.

I picked up the cross and darted in to
intercept him. Hilton, closer to the gun than I, retrieved it,
turned and fired, grazing my arm just below the shoulder. I lunged
low with a diving thrust, jabbing him in the meat of his thigh. He
dropped the gun, squealing in pain. I reeled off to one side, my
hands still bound and stretched out over my head. In that position
I rolled, taking advantage of the gradual downhill slope until I
felt I had put enough distance between him and me. When I thought
it prudent I scrambled to my feet and ran like hell.

Ahead, the church whose steeple I remembered
seeing silhouetted by the crescent moon, lay before my eyes like a
desert oasis. I recall how difficult it was running there with my
hands married at the wrists, and how my legs compensated by taking
shorter but quicker strides. All the while that infernal witch’s
stone kept bouncing off my chest, ping-ponging back and forth from
one breast to the other. I grabbed it as I reached the door of the
church and yanked it from its chain, dropping it at the threshold
before entering.

Once inside I realized I was no safer than
before. The door was wedged in the open position, yet there were no
people, no phones and no means to summons help whatsoever. I looked
around for something to cut the ropes from my hands, and spotted
what looked like a sharp edge on the metal candle racking by the
baptismal pool. I hurried to it and began sawing away, when an
angry voice echoed across the church.

“Stop, Miss Adams!” I knew right away it wasn’t
Jesus. He’d have called me Lilith. I turned and faced the rows of
pews leading to the front door. There stood Hilton, a gun in one
hand and a crooked stick, which he used as a crutch, in the other.
His leg was bleeding, but he made no attempt to tie off the wound
and allowed it to hemorrhage freely. “How fitting you should come
to my church in your last hour on earth,” he said. “Let me welcome
you to Our Lady of Grace.” He presented the surroundings with a
wave of his makeshift cane.

“Your church?” I looked around, noting how
perfectly normal a church it seemed. “Funny, I would have expected
to find the usual instruments of torture in your
church.”