The Witch’s Grave (16 page)

Later, curled up in bed, I felt tired, but my spirit was light. Abby had been right—I did it. The knowledge gained might not tie up all the loose threads, but knowing who hunted me was one more piece of the puzzle.

“All a matter of faith,” I murmured to myself as I floated off to sleep.

The shadows were lengthening—I had to hurry. I pumped the pedals of my bicycle faster as I turned the corner.
Good—the church of Saint Flora was up ahead.

I touched the package tucked in the pocket of my slacks. Precious food tickets—my payment for acting as courier for the saboteurs. The tickets had been waiting, locked in a shed near Quai de Valmy, when I made the drop. Using the key Brother Sebastian had given me, I’d unlocked the shed, left the explosives, and taken the counterfeit food tickets.

When I reached the alley next to the church, I made a sharp right turn and coasted to the rear of the building. Hopping off my bicycle, I left it propped against the side of the stone building and walked to a small wooden door. With a glance toward the end of the alley, I tapped twice. A second later the rasp of a bolt being thrown back sounded softly. The door opened, and Brother Sebastian silently drew me inside.

Touching a finger to his lips, he pivoted and strode down
a narrow hall—his cassock whispering faintly against his legs. I skipped behind, trying to keep up with him. At the end of the hall I saw another door. He stopped, took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. With a wave, he motioned me down a flight of wooden steps.

A single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling lit my way as I descended. The air became cooler, and a musty smell seemed to radiate from the damp walls. At the bottom of the stairs, I found myself standing in an ancient cellar.

The space was cluttered with old wooden chairs stacked haphazardly against one another, moldy books rotting on dusty shelves, and empty wine bottles. Brother Sebastian crossed the room to one of the shelves and slowly moved it away from the wall, revealing yet another door. It only measured four feet in height and had been completely invisible behind the shelf. He opened the door, and a small square of light appeared on the stone floor. Crouching, he went through the doorway.

I followed.

Straightening, I stood in a small room. Three pallets, laid side by side and covered with threadbare blankets, took up one wall. A single kerosene lamp, sitting on a square table in the center of the room, provided a small circle of light that didn’t quite reach the murky corners of the room.

I jumped when a man suddenly stepped out of the shadows. In the dim light, I sensed his body tense. He wore peasant clothes—a homespun shirt, rough trousers, and heavy boots. An old slouched hat covered his head. Even though the brim of his hat cast a partial shadow over his face, I could see his complexion spoke of his Gitan heritage.

Brother Sebastian crossed the room and laid a hand on the man’s arm. “It’s all right, Jacques, this is Madeleine. She’s here to help.”

I reached in my pocket for the food tickets, but stopped abruptly when Jacques took a half step toward me.

A small hand appeared on his shoulder, and someone whispered, “Jacques.”

His head whipped around as a woman holding a child stepped out from behind him.

“Come, Marie,” Brother Sebastian said, taking the woman’s arm and leading her to one of the chairs sitting by the table.

Marie sat, settling the child on her lap and wrapping her multicolored shawl tightly around the little girl. Jacques followed, and coming up behind her, put a hand protectively on Marie’s shoulder while he stared at me with suspicion.

Marie was also Gitan—high broad cheekbones, with black eyes and hair. Those eyes watched me now with fear hiding in their depths.

I looked at the child—a girl. Although petite, I judged her to be around nine or ten. She had inherited the best of both her parents. Caramel skin from her father and her mother’s black eyes. Her eyes didn’t watch me in fear like her mother, or with suspicion like her father. Her eyes held nothing but bright curiosity.

“Jacques, Madeleine has brought the food tickets.” Brother Sebastian nodded in my direction.

I took a step forward and placed them on the table by the lamp.

“Madeleine, this is Jacques and Marie Gaspard. And this,” he said, chucking the little girl under her chin, “is Rosa.”

I squatted in front of the child. “Hello, Rosa.”

“Hello, mademoiselle,” she replied shyly.

My eyes traveled up to Marie. “May I give her something?”

Marie relaxed against the back of the chair and nodded.

“Do you like candy?” I asked, and withdrew a peppermint stick from my pocket.

“Oh, yes!” Rosa exclaimed, her eyes dancing.

Handing her the candy, I smiled as her tongue darted out and licked the red and white stripes.

Marie bent her head down and whispered something in Rosa’s ear.

The child paused for a moment and gave me a wide smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” I said, smiling back at her.

She leaned her head back against her mother and continued eating her candy. As she did, a medallion around her neck glimmered in the soft light. It was a circle of gold surrounding four petals.

“Your necklace is lovely, Rosa,” I commented.

Marie smiled and laid a hand over the gleaming gold. “It’s very old.” She kissed the top of Rosa’s head. “It protects her from harm.”

As I talked to Marie, Brother Sebastian had drawn Jacques to the other side of the small room, and they stood talking in low voices.

He turned to me. “Madeleine,” he called abruptly.

Standing, I patted Rosa on the head, then joined them.

“I didn’t want to frighten Marie and Rosa,” Brother Sebastian said quietly, “but I want you to hear this. Go ahead, Jacques.”

Jacques removed his hat and wrung the brim with his hands. “When the Germans came, one of the village priests helped us escape. Keeping to the woods, he took us to the next village and to the church that was there. The priest from that village moved us to the next, and so it went, until we reached Paris and Brother Sebastian.”

“It must have been a long journey for you,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, lowering his eyes. “And we’ve a longer journey ahead.”

“Tell Madeleine what you learned at the last church,” Brother Sebastian prodded.

“To the east,” he said, his eyes darting to Brother Sebastian before settling on me, “saboteurs had blown up a bridge. Someone reported to the Germans that those responsible for the bridge were hiding in a small village nearby. The Germans came to the village—” His voice faltered.

“Go on,” Brother Sebastian urged.

Jacques’s complexion paled. “Without asking questions, they massacred the entire village. One woman survived by hiding in the bushes—everyone else—every man, woman, and child—dead.”

Bile rising in my throat threatened to choke me. I swallowed twice. “How many?” I croaked.

“Over six hundred.”

I gripped Brother Sebastian’s sleeve. “What does this mean?”

“For your safety, Madeleine, stay away from the saboteurs—”

“But how will we obtain the food tickets?”

“The black market—I know of a man selling them.”

“But that’s dangerous, too,” I pointed out.

Placing a hand on my arm, Brother Sebastian gave me a grim look. “These are dangerous times—all we can do is trust that Providence will protect us…” He paused. “…and be smarter than the Germans.” His eyes traveled around the small room. “We’ve used this place too many times. We’re moving Jacques, Marie, and Rosa to a new hiding place until we can transport them north.”

“Where?” I asked.

“The Catacombs,” he replied.

A chill shook me. The Catacombs—a series of tunnels dating back to the old Roman mines. A place of death—a place where millions of bones had been moved after many of the old cemeteries became overcrowded and had to be closed.

The thought of that sweet child being forced to exist among the dead had the bile rising again.

“You don’t want to frighten them?” I asked with a jerk of my head. “What do you think seeing a wall made of bones and skulls will do?”

“Madeleine, not all the tunnels are used as ossuaries. There’s one near Rue de Menilmontant.”

“When are you going to move them?”

“Tomorrow,” Brother Sebastian replied.

I glanced over at Marie and Rosa, still enjoying her peppermint stick, and shook my head. “Brother Sebastian, the Germans will take one look at them and know they’re refugees…they’ll ask questions.” Looking back at Marie, I sized her up. “We’re close to the same build. I’ll bring a suit, hat, and shoes for her. She’ll look like a Parisian when I’m finished. And Jacques? I’ll borrow some of Henrick’s clothes—” I hesitated. “But as for Rosa—I don’t have any children’s clothes.”

Brother Sebastian’s lips lifted in a small smile. “I hadn’t thought of their appearance. You’re very clever, Madeleine,” he commented. “Don’t worry about Rosa, I’ll find clothes for her.”

“They have to be stylish,” I said, shaking a finger at him, “not castoffs. Otherwise the Germans will know.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“How long will they have to stay in the Catacombs?”

“Not long. I’m arranging safe houses to the north. There’s a man with a fishing boat who will take them to Sweden.”

“Sweden?”

“Yes, Jacques knows a family there.”

I gripped Brother Sebastian’s sleeve. “Henrick is Swedish—maybe he can help them. I’ll—”

“No.” Brother Sebastian’s voice echoed in the small room, startling Marie and Rosa. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

I lifted my chin. “Henrick would never betray me,” I insisted.

Rushing up the stairs to my apartment, I couldn’t wait to talk to Henrick. I didn’t care what Brother Sebastian said…I loved Henrick and trusted him. I knew he’d help me if I asked.

Flinging the door open, I burst into the room, only to pull up short, my greeting dying on my lips.

Henrick sat on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand, talking like a long-lost friend to…Vogel.

“You forced me to play hostess to that man for two hours,” I shrieked as I stomped into the bedroom and flung myself on the bed. Enraged, I pummeled my pillow.

“Madeleine, don’t be this way,” Henrick pleaded, following me into the bedroom. “I’m sorry…I had no choice. I ran into him at Place de la Republique and he rather invited himself to the apartment.”

I felt the bed dip, and rolling over, I sat up. Scooting into the corner, I glared at Henrick. “I don’t want him here. I feel violated.” My head whipped around as my eyes scanned the room. “I want to open all the windows, I want to fumigate.”

“You’re being overdramatic, my love,” he replied, stretching out his hand to me. “You know I had to do what I did. For your sake and mine, Vogel must continue to think we’re his friends.”

I flounced deeper into the corner. “You’re a fool, Henrick, if you think Vogel just wants to be my friend. Didn’t you see the way he watched me?”

Henrick’s chin dropped. “Madeleine, Vogel may be a German, but he’s not without honor. He wouldn’t dare act inappropriately with you.”

“Pah,
he would dare much. Nazis have no honor.” I got to my knees, and placing my hands on the bed, leaned for
ward. “Today I learned they slaughtered an entire village,” I exclaimed. “Over six hundred people died.”

“Where did you hear that?” he asked, lifting his head.

“Never mind,” I answered, sitting back on my heels.

“Rumors—” He stopped and sighed. “Rumors and the propaganda of the communists. They want to incite the people of France, and they won’t be happy until the streets of Paris run red with blood.”

“You’re wrong—it happened,” I insisted.

Henrick laid a hand on my knee. “I know you hate them…I hate them, too…and right now things seem hopeless, but it won’t last. Hitler’s attacked the Soviet Union, and it’s a battle he can’t win any more than Napoleon could. Also, the Americans have entered into an agreement with the British. It’s only a matter of time before they enter the war.”

“How does that help France now?” I asked, clenching my fists.

“It doesn’t, my love, but it means someday this will be over and we can have a life together. We just have to survive and do the best we can until then.” Henrick lifted my fist to his mouth and placed a long kiss on the inside of my wrist. “Please, let’s not fight. I’ll think of a way to keep Vogel at bay. He won’t be here again.”

My eyes narrowed. “Do you promise?”

“Yes,” he answered, tugging me toward him. “I would do anything for you.” Wrapping his arms around me, he laid me back on the bed.

Anything but marry me, I thought to myself, but said nothing. Henrick was desperate to pacify my anger—that gave me the upper hand. And made it a good time to ask for favors.

I relaxed my body against his and laid an open palm against his face. “You would do anything for me?” I asked sweetly.

“Yes,” he murmured as he placed a kiss on my forehead.

“Would you help me get a refugee family to Sweden?”

He jerked to a sitting position. “No.”

Scrambling to the other side of the bed, I jumped to my feet. “Then you lie!”

Henrick shifted to where he could watch me. “We can’t risk making the Germans suspicious. We could lose everything, and—”

“Not we,” I said, cutting him off and jabbing a finger at him. “You. You could lose access to their money.” I stamped my foot. “You’re a selfish, selfish man, Henrick Sorenson, and you care nothing for others, not even me.” Whirling, I strode to the bathroom, where I pivoted and grabbed the door. “Someday you’ll learn what’s really important,” I cried, slamming the door in his face.

My cheeks were damp with tears—poor Madeleine. Her anger, her disappointment in Henrick, lingered in my mind. Believing in the man he could be, she was torn between her love for him and the man he was.

What did the dream mean? I didn’t know. I’d fallen asleep confident that my gift would show me the way, but now that feeling was gone. Instead, I felt wrung out by the disturbing dream. I tossed and turned, dozing for a few minutes, only to wake up with a start, and then remaining awake for the rest of the night.

As I watched the sunrise lighten my bedroom, I resolved to put the dream behind me and concentrate on today. I needed to know if the man on the motorcycle, the one who’d gunned down Ben Jessup, and the man who chased me were one in the same. My meditation with the datolite had revealed the scar on his face, something I’d missed in St. Louis.

Only one person I could think of might know the answer to that—Antonio Vargas.

Though anxious to talk to him, I waited a decent amount of time before driving to his house. I didn’t want to roust him out of bed.

When I arrived, I spied him around the side of the small
house, pruning a climbing rosebush with long-handled loppers. He wore old jeans, a work shirt, and long leather gloves. A wheelbarrow next to him was already half full of thorny spines.

Getting out of the car, I crossed the yard before calling out. “Hi, Mr. Vargas,” I said in a cheerful voice.

He paused and glanced at me, but the slouched hat he wore made it hard to see the expression in his eyes. His lips, though, tightened in a thin line. Without speaking, he turned back to the rosebush and, with a swift snap of the lopper’s handles, clipped another cane. It fell to his feet. Bending at the waist, he picked up the stick and threw it in the wheelbarrow with the rest of them.

“Isn’t that a Seven Sister?” I asked, touching one of the canes.

He clipped another and tossed it toward me. I stepped to the side to avoid it hitting me.

I’m not giving up.

Clenching my fists, I tried to keep my voice pleasant. “My grandmother, Abigail McDonald, has one of those. Maybe you know her? She owns Abby’s Greenhouse.”

Vargas’s only reply was to prune another branch off the bush.

Jeez, if he keeps cutting instead of talking…there isn’t going to be anything left of that bush.

“The roses are beautiful when they bloom, aren’t they? Oh, you have a trumpeter vine.” I pointed to the woody vine, laden with orange trumpet-shaped flowers, twining up the light pole. “Abby has one of those, too. Has Evita ever picked the flowers and put them on her fingers, like fake fingernails? Abby always got so upset when I did that.”

His mouth softened when I mentioned Evita, but an instant later settled back into a hard line.

“Ms. Jensen, I don’t think you drove all the way out here to talk about gardening,” he finally said in a curt voice. “What do you want?”

“I wasn’t completely honest when I was here last week,” I said, stepping back toward the wheelbarrow.

I saw his eyebrows lift as if to say
No kidding.

“But I’m going to tell you the truth now,” I continued. “I think someone shot Stephen Larsen to stop him from writing his next book.”

Vargas quickly moved to the other side of the rosebush.

Ahh, I’d hit a nerve there.

I walked up to him. “And I think the same person, or someone working with him, killed Ben Jessup. You remember Ben, don’t you? He worked at the winery?”

He whirled suddenly when I mentioned Ben.

I pressed my advantage. “They also mugged Karen Burns, Stephen’s assistant,
and
tried to shoot me.”

“I think you’d better leave.”

I crossed my arms and drilled him with my eyes. “When whoever it was killed Jessup and took a shot me, he was riding a motorcycle.”

“Many people ride motorcycles.”

“You’re right, but I think this man has a scar running from the corner of his eye down his face. Know anyone like that?”

Vargas turned his back to me as he cut off another rose cane. “No.”

“The man who visited you last week, on
his
motorcycle, didn’t have a scar?”

He waved his loppers in the direction on my car. “I think you’d better leave—”

I reached out and grabbed his sleeve, interrupting him. “Please, Mr. Vargas, these men are killers—”

A vein in the side of his neck twitched as he whirled and stared at me. “If it’s as you say—they’re killers—for the sake of my family, do you think—” He broke off and in rapid succession cut three more canes down. “I must protect Deloris and Evita.”

“Mr. Vargas—” I pleaded, taking a step back.

I didn’t finish—we both turned to see a sheriff’s car roll to a stop in the driveway.

Vargas whirled on me. “If you’ve brought trouble to my home—” he said, jabbing the loppers in my direction.

“No,” I said, holding up both hands. “Honest—”

“What’s going on?” Bill called as he hoisted his pants and walked toward us.

“Nothing, Bill. I’m just paying a visit.” I tried to look nonchalant.

Vargas threw the loppers on top of the rose canes and removed his long leather gloves. “Sheriff Wilson,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Antonio, nice morning,” Bill said in greeting as he shook Vargas’s hand. “Looked like you folks were having an argument,” he commented, watching me carefully.

“Oh, no, Bill,” I said, meeting his eyes, “nothing like that. We were discussing overdue fines.”

Bill removed his hat and rubbed his head a couple of times, then cleared his throat. “Antonio, you have a sister.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Antonio didn’t pick up on it. A sense of foreboding formed inside of me.

“Yes, in Mexico.” His skin paled and his eyes darted my way in a silent plea.

I kept my mouth shut and tugged on my bottom lip.

“Is Deloris here?” Bill asked abruptly.

“No, no, they’re at church.” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “Why are you here, Sheriff?” He twisted the fabric in his hands. “Something hasn’t happened to my wife and daughter?”

“No.” Bill clapped a big hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Antonio…I received a call from Yuma, Arizona, today. The body of a young woman was found in the desert—”

Antonio’s knees wobbled, then he stiffened. “My sister,” he said, his voice bleak. “What happened?”

“She was with a group of immigrants trying to cross the
border. The Yuma County sheriff didn’t know if the smuggler they’d hired abandoned them or just failed to pick them up. They were found by some guys on ATVs.” Bill’s voice was soft and low. “Your sister was already gone by the time the group was discovered. I’m sorry.”

Vargas seemed to shrink with each word, as if a terrible weight crushed him. The handkerchief slipped from his fingers. “She wouldn’t listen…I’ve been working for years to get her a visa…she was growing impatient.” He lifted haunted eyes to Bill’s face. “She was only twenty.”

Bill dropped his hand from Antonio’s shoulder and reached in his pocket, withdrawing a piece of paper. “Here’s the number for the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department and the hospital where they took your sister, if you want to call them.”

Antonio took the paper from Bill and stared at it as if he couldn’t decipher the words. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Do you want me to go pick up Deloris and Evita and bring them home for you?” Bill asked.

Antonio shook his head. “No, that would only frighten them…they’ll be home soon.” His voice broke.

Taking my arm, Bill took a step toward the waiting cars. “Come on, Ophelia.”

I shook his hand off and crossed to Antonio. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Antonio,” I said with sympathy.

He stood there, not speaking, just staring at the paper in his hands.

“Let’s go,” Bill called out.

I joined Bill and together we walked to the waiting cars. Bill opened my door then clapped his hat on his head. “What were you doing here?”

Sliding into the car, I looked up at him. “It’s a long story.”

“I bet,” he said with a snort. “You want to tell me?”

“No.” I closed the car door and rolled down the window. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

Even if he did, my story would only bring more trouble to the Vargas family, and they had enough problems right now.

Bill leaned down and braced his forearm on the car door. “The next time I run into you, young lady, it better be at the library where you belong.”