The Night Strangers (29 page)

“Come back to bed,” she says.

“Yes, of course,” you agree, and together you return to your bedroom. There you slip the knife between the mattress and the box spring when you tuck back in the sheets. And you are thorough when you tuck them back in, because Emily likes a tight bed.

Chapter Fourteen

W
hen the girls are at school and Emily is at work, while you are painting the entry foyer, you are surprised by a visitor. It is Hewitt Dunmore. He is wearing a red check flannel jacket and leans on his cane on the front steps of your house in much the same way he did when you visited him at his home in St. Johnsbury. Behind him, in the trees at the edge of the meadow beyond the greenhouse, you notice that the wisps of green shadowing the tree branches have become actual buds. Alabaster white clouds float against the blue sky like islands.

“This is a surprise,” you tell him, extending your hand.

“I was going to call, but since I am apologizing, I thought I should do it in person. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Apologize?”

He peers over your shoulder at the masking tape protecting the trim in the front hallway and surveys the way you have already coated one wall with a shade of paint called sunset coral. “Looks like you’re making some changes,” he says, ignoring your question. “Good for you.”

“I guess.” You shrug, not wanting him to feel insulted by the ways you are redoing virtually every room in this house that once belonged to his family. “But that’s only because we have little girls and—”

He waves you off. “The paper was tired. The paint was tired. Makes sense to spruce up the old place.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“I’ll just stay a minute,” he agrees, and together you walk carefully over the newspaper along the floor in the hall and around the paintbrush and roller and the open can of sunset coral paint. You sit in your kitchen now, just as you did once before in his, though this visit feels more companionable. He drapes his flannel jacket on the back of the chair and hooks his cane over an armrest. Behind his shoulder, in the dining room, you gaze at those disturbing, nearly dead sunflowers.

“I want to tell you I’m sorry.”

“So you said. What for?”

“For my parents’ strangeness. For the things my mother left around the house. And, yes, for their burying my brother in the basement,” he says, and you have the sense by the forcefulness of his response that he has rehearsed these words.

“You knew?”

“About my brother? I did not know for a fact. But I suspected.”

“Did you know about the knife and the—”

“No. That was a surprise. I would have told you about those things if I’d known, since you have children. But Sawyer’s body? I figured it was long gone by now—you know, deteriorated—assuming anyone even wanted to break down that blasted door. Still, I should have told you. But I needed the money from the house. It’s just that simple. I have health issues, I don’t have much of a retirement nest egg. And so, well, I looked the other way. Told myself my parents hadn’t really buried Sawyer there, and, if they did, it wasn’t a big deal. And here’s the last thing: If I had known your girls were twins, I would never have sold you the old place. I swear it.”

You think about all that he has just shared with you, unsure where to begin. “So, your parents never told you they had buried your brother here,” you observe after a long moment.

“Nope. But then the State Police called and I knew.”

“Why did they do it? Your parents?”

He sighs. “I was never here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was never here—at your house, in this kitchen. That’s what I mean. What I am about to tell you? You can tell no one I told you.”

“My wife—”

“No one. I presume you are the sort of man who tells his wife everything. Am I right?”

“Yes,” you agree, though these days you know that’s a lie.

“Well, you cannot tell her this. Act on the information as you see fit. But you cannot tell her I was ever here or we ever spoke. She works for John Hardin. I know Reseda sold you this house. So, can you promise me that?”

“Yes. That’s fine.”

He seems to think about whether he really can trust you. Finally: “I suppose you’ve seen a lot of the women.”

“The women?”

“The herbalists. I suppose they’ve been here a lot.”

“No. Not really.”

“That’s surprising.”

“I mean, they haven’t been strangers. I’ve been to John and Clary Hardin’s house for dinner. And Anise is constantly feeding us,” you tell him, although ever since you saw the effect of her baked goods on some ants on your walkway, you have done all that you can to prevent your family from eating any. You have certainly eaten none yourself. If you could be absolutely sure that Emily had not already been commandeered into the group, you would share with her your suspicions. “And, of course, Reseda became our real estate agent after Sheldon died,” you continue.

“ ’Course she did. She saw you had twins. You may recall, she was not my first choice in a real estate agent.”

“And you did not come to the closing.”

“I try to steer clear of them—the women. They showing interest in your girls? The twins?”

“I think my girls see a lot more of them than I do. My wife has them go to their houses all the time after school.” Again, there it is: that vague fear that Emily already is one of them.

At this Hewitt sits forward in his chair and grasps the edges of the kitchen table with both hands. “They think they’re witches.”

You have had this idea, too, but not in such a literal sense. In your mind, it was always hyperbole. Exaggeration. Even, early on, condescension. “Go on.”

Hewitt repeats himself, enunciating each word perfectly, no contraction this time: “They think they are witches. That is what they believe. They call themselves herbalists, but it’s all witchcraft. Most of what they do is harmless. But not all of it. Not all the time.”

“How big is the group?”

“How many have you met?” he asks, his voice growing a little more urgent. You realize he hasn’t answered your question.

“I don’t know. Maybe five or six.”

“My mother was one. She was always in that greenhouse. Always.”

“You said most of what they do is harmless. What isn’t?”

He looks straight at you, his eyes locked on yours. “They’re crazy,” he says, his usually laconic voice growing urgent and intense. “They believe in blood sacrifice. I would not put it past them to try again to kill a child.”

“One of my girls?”

“One of your girls. That’s why I should never have let you buy this place.”

“Tell me the truth: Why was your mother hiding knives and hatchets all over the house? Who was she afraid of?”

“I told you, I didn’t know she was hiding those things.”

“She wasn’t trying to protect you and your brother?”

“No. She did that long after my brother was gone. She was probably trying to protect herself.”

“From?”

“Who do you think?”

“Well, the women. The herbalists. But you said she was one of them.”

“She was until they took her son. My brother.”

“Your brother slashed his wrists.”

“I don’t think so. I think something went wrong.”

“With a ritual?”

“A ceremony. While they were making one of their potions. I’ll never know because Sawyer died and my mother would never talk about it. She was never the same after that night. How could she be? She saw her son slaughtered—and there is no other word for it. But she was there. Had to be. And even if she wasn’t, she was the one who led him there in the first place. Her own boy. I don’t know what went wrong that night or whether the other women knew he was going to die. I believe Clary Hardin was there. Sage Messner, too. And Anise. And I know for sure that my mother’s guilt drove her mad.”

You want to reassure him that you are no stranger to the notion of guilt driving a person mad. You feel that pain in your side and know instantly that Ashley is present. You are imagining her in the den with her dolls—no, that’s not right; those are your daughters’ dolls—when you see her standing in the doorway to the dining room, the sunflowers towering over her. She is listening intently. You nod at her. You have to restrain yourself from waving.

“Their potions are an inexact science at best,” Hewitt continues. “The women think they have more control over them than they do. They all seem to have more confidence than they should in what they steep and stew.”

“Why would they want to kill one of my girls?”

“Most of their potions and tinctures come from plants. You’ve seen their greenhouses. But not all. Some potions demand animal parts, too. Or blood. Sometimes it’s animal blood and sometimes it’s human blood. And sometimes it’s a heart. I know of one tincture that demands a deer heart. I know of another where they use the hearts of bluebirds. Yup, bluebirds. I don’t know what they did to Sawyer the night he died, but I presume they did not cut out his heart. Even in a part of New England as rural as this, I think someone in the medical examiner’s office or the funeral home would have noticed. But they did need his blood.”

“And my girls?”

“They’re twins. That was what was so important about Sawyer. Could have been me, you know. But the recipe, it seems, only needs one twin: And for some reason they picked him and not me. Maybe”—and here he waved one of his arms dismissively—“they liked his blood more than mine. Or maybe they thought he wasn’t as far along as I was.”

“Far along?”

“Puberty. The twin is supposed to be prepubescent.” He turns around abruptly and glances out the window. Churning up a trail of dust on the gravel and dirt driveway is Anise’s old pickup. When he looks back at you, his face has become ashen. He shakes his head ever so slightly, and you rise to go and greet Anise. You watch her gaze curiously at Hewitt’s automobile as she exits her truck, and then welcome her into your house. She has brought a casserole dish and a plate of brownies.

“You have company,” she says in the doorway. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all.”

“I’ve brought you a cassoulet—vegan, of course.”

“Of course.”

“It begins with dried haricot beans. But you’ll recognize lots of other vegetables. And the thyme and rosemary and bay leaf are from my greenhouse.”

“That was sweet of you. Thank you.”

She bustles past you into the kitchen without asking. “Hewitt Dunmore,” she says when she sees him, her voice flat and unreadable, her lips curling up into a withering smile. She places the brownies and the cassoulet on the counter. “It has been aeons. How are you? How is life in the big city?”

“I wouldn’t call St. Johnsbury a big city.”

“Oh, but it dwarfs Bethel. You must love it there. You never, ever seem to come back here.”

He remains silent.

“So, tell me: What has brought you back today? Old home week? Leave something behind in the house?” she asks, her face hard, and she rolls her eyes toward the door to the basement.

“I happened to be driving this way and thought I would see the old place,” he says, his voice a little shaky.

“That’s all? Really?”

He looks down at the tabletop, a small child being chastised. “Really,” he mumbles.

“First time back?”

“First time.”

“Well, I know the captain appreciates visitors enormously.”

“Actually, Anise, I was just leaving.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Errands,” he says vaguely.

“Well, I hope you two had a nice visit.”

“No complaints,” Hewitt says, reaching for his cane and standing. He clumsily pushes his arms through his jacket sleeves. And then he is gone, limping along the front walkway to his car.

“I’d say he’s a bit strange,” Anise remarks, her voice a little conspiratorial—as if you two are the closest of friends. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t think I’m a real good person to make that call.”

You watch Desdemona pounce upon the circular plastic ring from a milk carton. Accidentally she bats it underneath the stove.

“Are your daughters cat people?”

“Not especially. I think they are ambivalent about Desdemona,” you tell her. “When they were younger, they played with her more.”

She seems to think about this. Then: “How is your stomach? That injury must be pretty well healed by now.”

“It is, thank you. I feel pretty good.”

“I suppose they still have you on some antibiotic?”

“Not anymore.”

She nods, offering no opinion on whether she approves of antibiotics, but you have a feeling that she would have prescribed instead a tincture made from some exotic herb that she grows in her greenhouse. The idea crosses your mind that these women steer clear of doctors, but you don’t honestly believe this. After all, isn’t Valerian a psychiatrist?

Anise hands you one of the brownies. “I baked them this morning,” she says. “Try it.”

You take it and stare at it for a brief moment. When she senses your hesitation, she delicately breaks off a piece and puts it into her own mouth. “I am a fiend for my own cooking,” she says when she has swallowed it. The gesture is oddly intimate.

And so you take a breath. But still you can’t bring yourself to take a bite. “I had a big lunch,” you tell her.

She nods. “Suit yourself,” she says slowly. “I’ll be seeing your girls later today. They can tell you what you missed.”

R
eseda was moving among the mad-dog skullcap and the ashwagandha in her greenhouse, tending them with a brass watering can shaped like a crouching gargoyle (the water flowed from its large, round eyes) and a plastic mister with a falcon’s head (in this case, the water emanated from its beak). She was listening more carefully than it might have seemed as Clary and Sage prattled on behind her about how far along her St.-John’s-wort was and how healthy it seemed by comparison to theirs. She understood why they had come by this afternoon, and she suspected they knew that she knew: They were struggling mightily to mask their real thoughts with their enthusiastic blather about the state of her herbs. Moreover, Clary was blinking senselessly, which the woman believed (mistakenly) in some fashion shorted out the connection between her mind and Reseda’s.

Finally, when Reseda turned off the spigot beside the greenhouse hose for the last time, Clary got around to the actual reason for their visit. “You know, Reseda,” she began, hoping her voice sounded offhand, “Anise wants to try again. She thinks the Linton girls offer real potential after what their father went through. The trauma of the plane crash and all. So, we were wondering if perhaps you two could, I don’t know, enter into a period of détente?”