grandson worked there. All the same, Mrs. Fremont still spent a lot of her time at the shelter, lending an ear to troubled teens. She seemed to be the town grandmother.
“Well, anyway,” Jacob went on, “I talked Sammy into going to the shelter. She didn’t put up much of an argument. I guess even the witch friends were tired of having her over all the time.”
“Who are these witches?”
“They’re not even really witches. It’s just a bunch of high school kids playing dress-up. They read all these weird books and try to do the rituals and all of that, but as far as I know the worst thing they’ve done is gone into the cemetery after closing.”
“Some people think there are occult groups murdering their pets, having strange sexual rituals, worshipping the devil,” I said. “Maybe getting into drugs, things like that. Trying to be evil, you might say.”
“I know what people think. But it isn’t true. Not with this group. I mean, I think Sammy would let me know if they did anything like that. She loves animals — she wouldn’t hang out with anyone that killed a pet. Maybe there’s some other group of witches out there. I don’t know. These people she hangs out with talk like they’re really evil, but I think they just like the showy stuff. I think they’re all talk.”
“All of them? Maybe Sammy’s fairly innocent, but when people get into this kind of thing, they sometimes attract people who are more serious about it all.”
He brooded over that for a moment. “That’s what I’m afraid of, I guess. That’s why I keep trying to get her to quit hanging around with them.”
He was holding something back, so I decided to wait it out. It was getting stuffy in the little room, but I figured there was more to the story than he had told me thus far.
“There is one guy…” he said, then paused, seeming reluctant to say more. “He’s older. Sammy told me about him. He’s sort of the leader. They never see his face. He wears some sort of goat mask or something. He wasn’t there the night I tried to get Sammy to leave. But she was really freaked out, you know, like if the guy found me there he would kill me.”
“I don’t know, maybe she was just being dramatic. She is sometimes. Lots of times, really. She just needs attention. But I think she really was scared of something.”
Something was bothering me about his story, and I finally figured out what it was. “If you didn’t see a photographer, how do you know there’s a photo? And how do you know about this hit piece of Montgomery’s?”
He turned beet red. If he was nervous before, he was frantic now. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You’re really testing my patience, you know that? There’s going to be a witch hunt, only there aren’t really any witches. You say you’ve been photographed at a gathering of these wanna-be witches, but you don’t know who took the photograph. You say there’s about to be a smear campaign that might cause your father to lose an election, but you can’t tell me how you know. And for toppers, you’ve asked me to keep all of this stuff that
“Please,” he said, bursting into tears, “I need your help.”
I felt like a bully. I hadn’t meant to make the kid cry. I leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, Jacob, I didn’t mean to be so hard on you.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a packet of tissues.
He was embarrassed, but he took one.
“Have you talked to your father about this?”
He laughed. There was no mirth in it. “What father?” he said.
“The one you care so much about that you’d come down here and talk to the meanest reporter in town.”
He smiled a little at that. “You’re not mean. He’s not around much. He’s — I understand, really — it’s important to him to win. But he doesn’t have time to sleep, let alone talk to me. He’s really worn out.”
“He should be proud of you. You care about your friends and your family. You strike me as being a good-hearted person.”
“He doesn’t think so. He doesn’t want people to know about me. I don’t know. It’s because of the way I dress — at least, that’s what my mom says. I guess I’m no different from Sammy. I sort of rebel against him. But I really do like to wear black.”
“Can’t help you with that, Jacob. You’re in one of the world’s oldest struggles there. What do you think I
“Could you tell people I’m not a witch?”
“It will seem pretty odd if I do that before anyone has said you are.”
“It’s going to happen. I — can you keep a secret?”
“Most secrets. If they won’t hurt anyone, or compromise the paper. But just because I’m a reporter doesn’t mean you can’t trust me with a confidence.”
“I have a friend who — who works for the Montgomery campaign. We don’t usually talk about politics. But when my friend saw this flyer about me being a witch — well, that’s how I found out. I don’t want to get my friend in trouble.”
“Girlfriend?”
He turned red again. “Please don’t ask me any more about it, okay? I’ve told you too much already.”
He acted as if he was going to leave. “Hold on, hold on,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone about your friend.” He looked at me as if he were trying to decide if he could trust me. Apparently I passed the test, because he sat back down again.
“Look, Jacob, all I can do is try to find out if this piece is really going to be mailed out, and if it is, I’ll do what I
