The Evil Inside

often, that child can grow to believe himself worthless and incapable of doing anything right.”

“So, you would describe your church as a strict group, but certainly not fanatical,” Sam said.

Wilson laughed. “We are different. The Mormons are seen as different, as are the Amish. But we are Christians. We do believe in God in His Heaven, and we believe, equally, that there are evil forces. We believe in sin, but as Christ stated, true remorse brings us to the forgiveness of sins. We don’t seek to harm anyone else, and we don’t punish those who leave the church. We are all creatures of free choice.”

“All right, it’s true that we all have a tendency to mistrust each other, to be suspicious of what we don’t understand. You don’t believe that Malachi is a killer, so I’m going to assume that Abraham Smith had enemies.”

Wilson was quiet for a minute. “I’m curious that you’ve come here. I do read the papers, though I don’t have a television. The police say that Malachi is the alleged killer of Mr. Andres of Andover and Mr. Covington, as well. What enemies would they have had that they shared with Abraham Smith?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Sam said.

Wilson let out a long sigh. “Do I believe that Malachi is a killer? No. Might there be something in him that I never saw? Possibly. Did Abraham have enemies? Most definitely. Only two other families with children in that area belong to our congregation, and they keep very quiet. The rest of those people…they tolerate the Wiccans in the community, thinking of them as actors, really, drawing in the tourists. They tolerate Catholic, Jewish, agnostic, atheistic, Baptist and probably Buddhist. But us? We live too simply for them. They don’t understand that we honestly believe that we are judged daily, that God will come again, and that we can choose to lead pure lives, or we can choose to sin. If Abraham did have real enemies, they did not come from this church. We are of a like mind and, if anyone had a serious problem with him, they would have had a problem with all of us probably, and would have come to me.”

“Did he ever seem to be afraid of anyone? Did he have comments about the murders of his neighbor, or Mr. Andres?”

Wilson shrugged. “Well, he believed that God himself determined that Peter Andres should be killed. He told me he wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Grim Reaper himself or an avenging angel come down to kill Peter Andres. Then again, Peter Andres had said that Abraham was a wart not just on the community, but on the world, and that he was ruining his one and only child. I believe Andres intended to look into social services and see if he could get the boy taken away from Abraham, but to my knowledge, nothing was ever done. Andres was a big, scary man, and I’d believe more easily that he would have offered violence to the Smiths. But since he died first, he can hardly be suspected of Abraham’s murder.”

“No, of course. What about his neighbor?”

“Now, Abraham kept to himself, from what I understood. Except that he ranted and raved a lot-and yelled at Malachi loudly enough for people in the next block to hear. One of his punishments was to make the kid stand out in the cold, against the front of the house. I doubt if his neighbors liked that much-it’s embarrassing to everyone to see cruelty. Of course, they lived in the Lexington House, and the house itself has a reputation. I’m sure some people believe that evil lives in the house.”

“What do you believe?” Sam asked him.

“Does evil live on?” Wilson asked thoughtfully. “Evil remains, where it has always been, in the heart of man.”

“Of course.”

“Innocents-those who were loyal enough to risk their lives rather than tell the lie that they had signed the devil’s book-were the ones who went to the gallows, you know, back during the witchcraft scare,” Wilson said. “The trials were bizarre! Those who admitted to witchcraft and confessed weren’t hanged. Those who clung passionately to their belief that such a lie would be against God… they’re the ones who suffered the death penalty!”

“I know. I’m from the area,” Sam said.

Wilson stood up, perhaps embarrassed at his outburst of proselytizing to a layman. “We work at the soup kitchen, helping out with the homeless,” he said. “I’m enjoying our conversation, but I’m needed.”

Sam stood, as well. “Thank you for your time,” he said. He started toward the door.

“Mr. Hall,” Wilson called.

Sam stopped and turned back.

“But, was the devil busy at work in Massachusetts in 1692? Yes. He is always busy. So, please, don’t delude yourself. The devil is still alive and well and busy in Massachusetts, in the world, just as he was in 1692.”

6

Little had changed at Sedge’s Market since Jenna was last there. Milton Sedge ran a clean store with neat, tight aisles and five checkout lanes. Bananas and prime rib were on special. Large cardboard, handwritten signs advertised the daily deals. He had long been a holdout as far as credit cards went, but he, like the rest of the world, seemed to have succumbed to the necessity of plastic. The one thing that had changed was that.

A friendly girl at one of the registers directed Jenna to a rear office. She didn’t get far, however, before she saw the man she sort of recognized as Milton Sedge himself. He was in a butcher’s coat, directing an employee to clean out one of the meat cabinets. He was doing so pleasantly enough, but efficiency and survival seemed to be on his mind.

“Dates, Richard-come on! Pay attention to the dates. We never sell anything once it’s past its date. That’s how we compete with the big guys. Quality-and assurance!” he said firmly.

The worker was a slim youth who appeared to be about seventeen. He nodded vigorously with his compliance. “Yes, sir, yes, sir, I’m on it!”

“Mr. Sedge?” Jenna asked.

He turned to look at her, a balding man with a large nose and massive eyebrows that seemed to be trying to compensate for the loss of hair on his head.

“Yes?” He stared at her, as if trying to decide if he knew her or not.

“Hi. I’m Jenna Duffy,” she said, offering her hand.

“Do you want a job?” he asked skeptically, openly studying her.

She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m working with Sam Hill on Malachi Smith’s defense.”

“Oh! Well, you know I gave my statement to the police.”

“Yes, sir. I know that you did. I’m just trying to hear what you have to say with my own ears and, also, to ask you, of course, if you’re certain about your statement.”

He nodded, distracted. An elderly woman with a cart had come next to them. “Milton, where are those bananas?” she demanded.

“Eleanor, what? You’re not going senile, are you? The bananas are in the fruit section!” Sedge said, scratching his head. “Show some good old New England common sense, will you, please?”

“Milton, I’m full of good New England common sense. There are no bananas in the fruit section, and that’s why I’m asking you!” the woman said, indignant.

“Richard! Will you go to the back and see that the bananas are restocked!” Sedge asked.

“Yes, sir!”

“Let’s step into my office, shall we?” Sedge suggested. “It’s just to the left, behind the pharmacy.”

A few seconds later Jenna was seated on a foldout chair between boxes of crackers and he was behind a desk stacked high with invoices. He folded his hands on the desk.

“I’ve taken some guff over this, I’ll have you know. But what I saw is what I saw!” Sedge said. “What is-is. And that’s just the way it is.”

“What do you mean, guff?” Jenna asked him.

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind, as well. “Guff! Guff! Grief! All kinds of misery. Folks around here believe that Malachi killed Earnest Covington, and that I’m the one who has lost my eyesight. But that boy was in this store from four to six last Saturday afternoon-the kid liked shopping, read every label on every can. I think he