“Satanism.”
“Satanism? Could you explain?”
“I found out Bernice was into that witchcraft stuff,” she said. “And I done read all about it… they have nekked sex, you know, and drink the blood of babies!” She touched the basket as if to reassure herself that her granddaughter was still there-safe from all things that go bump in the night.
“I have something I want you to look at.” From my purse, I retrieved the letter Bernice had thought of as a death threat. “You wrote this, didn't you? You sent Bernice an anonymous letter threatening her,” I said as I unfolded it.
“What makes you think so?” she said, glaring at me defiantly.
“You misspelled
Her face turned guilt-red.
“You called Bernice ‘which one.’ You misspelled
Weezie snatched the letter from my hand and tore it into tiny pieces.
“It's a photocopy,” I said.
“She didn't have no right to make all that money. Her and her evil ways.”
“That was enough of a reason to threaten to kill her?”
“I didn't say nothing about killing her. I only meant I was going to tell on her. I figured if decent folk knew what kind of person she was, they'd run her out of town-at least stop her from getting richer off the good people what lives here-and she wouldn't drink no more baby blood.”
I was getting nauseous, and it wasn't from thinking about baby blood. If there were other “good” people like Weezie in Lickin Creek, I could understand why Cassie thought it wise to keep quiet about her wiccan activities. And thinking of Cassie, I asked, “You're the one who tried to scare Cassie Kriner, aren't you? By leaving the broomsticks on our door.”
Her flushed face told me I was right. Religion and superstition are close cousins.
I picked up my purse and stood, preparing to leave. “I hope you realize you might be in danger,” I said.
A look of panic spread across Weezie's flat face.
“Two Lickin Creek women who were playing sugar plum fairies have been murdered. You were the third fairy. There's a pretty good chance you could be the next victim.” Scaring her wasn't very nice, I knew, but I felt some moral satisfaction at shaking up her narrow, self-righteous world.
Outside, ignoring the pungent odor of fertilizer in the air, I took a deep breath then headed for my truck. Weezie stood in the doorway and watched me back up. I couldn't help noticing her shabby cotton dress, so inappropriate for the winter. And the black eye, of course. And suddenly I felt sad… for her… for Mrs. Pof- fenberger… and for all the women like them living hopeless lives. Weezie needed to be hugged, not rebuked, but before I could make a move, she went back into the house and closed the door.
All the way back to town, I thought about Weezie and Jackson and their relationship. She could have been telling the truth about walking into a door, but I doubted it. During our conversation, Weezie had let me know she intensely disliked both Oretta and Bernice. Matavious, too. Was the mousy little seamstress fanatic enough to murder two people?
Back in the borough, the streets were once again torn up for repairs. This time the detour took me through the old section of town, where many deserted commercial buildings spoke of more prosperous times. Ahead of me was the enormous redbrick building that Bernice and Vernell Kaltenbaugh had hoped to turn into an oasis of art and culture. I stopped the truck to take a look at it.
Size was one of the only two things going for it. The place was definitely large enough to contain a lot of stores and art studios, and even the theatre Bernice had hoped would bring music and drama to Lickin Creek.
What really made the site special was the Lickin Creek itself. The sparkling little river tumbled in a waterfall over a small dam, meandered through some underbrush and under a crumbling stone bridge, then disappeared into an archway in the side of the old cold-storage building.
Curious about where it went, I got out of the truck to take a look. Along the base of the building were several arches, about three feet high, covered with wire mesh. To look through one, I knelt on the cracked macadam parking lot and saw that beneath the building the creek spread out into a huge tar-black lake. There was no way to tell how deep it was, but the water was so still and dark it gave the appearance of being bottomless.
My favorite childhood poem by Coleridge came to mind, and I recited, “‘Where Alph, the sacred river, ran / Through caverns measureless to man / Down to a sunless sea.’” It was here that Bernice had dreamed of building her “stately pleasure dome.” Could this deserted part of town really be brought to life again, as San Antonio had done with its River Walk?
As I stood up, dusting off my knees, I noticed a flight of rusted iron steps leading up to a doorway. And the door was slightly ajar. This was a siren call, urging me to climb the stairs and take a look inside the building. A NO TRESPASSING sign was tacked on the door, and beneath it someone had spray-painted a pentacle in a circle and written SATAN LIVES. I looked around to see if anybody was watching and pushed on the door. It creaked, rattled, and screeched as it opened just wide enough to allow me to slip inside.
At first, I found it too dark to see anything and was about to give up in disappointment. But my eyes soon adjusted, and I discerned that I stood on a concrete landing overlooking the mysterious lake. A flight of stairs to my right led to the upper floors of the building.
I soon wished I'd stayed home and minded my own business. The steps were of some kind of metal mesh that I could see through, straight down to the water below, and my vertigo kicked in. And even worse, the whole staircase was creaking and shaking, threatening to pull away from the wall. Realizing I was nearly at the top, I clutched the rail and kept going on wobbly legs until I stepped off the stairs and onto a blessedly solid concrete floor.
How was I ever going to get back down? There had to be another flight of stairs-just had to be! Hoping to find another way out, I looked around the cavernous room, dimly lit by the small amount of light filtering through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. I didn't see another exit, although the room was so large and dark that I realized there could be one somewhere.
What I did see, in the center of the room, was a long table, covered with black cloth. I walked over to take a closer look and saw on it several candles in a variety of colors, a brass bowl full of something smelling sweetly of dried orange peels and incense, a crystal goblet that looked like genuine Waterford, a ceramic statue of the Chinese goddess Kwan Yin, and a dagger with an ornately carved ebony handle. Without a doubt, this had to be where Cassie's coven met. Everything on the table was too expensive and too sophisticated to belong to a group of teenagers in a cult.
I'd discounted as nonsense Weezie's frightened statement that wiccans drank “baby's blood,” but now, seeing the dagger on this makeshift altar, I wondered.
“Hands up, you little shit, or I'll blow your frigging head off.” Although I'd heard nobody come up the creaky stairs, someone obviously had and was standing close behind me.
My arms flew up in the air, reaching for the ceiling.
“Don't shoot,” I cried. “Please. I'm a reporter.”
From behind me came a strangled sound I recognized as laughter. “Some'uns would think that was reason enough to shoot you. Turn around.”
I did as ordered and immediately recognized Stanley Roadcap's melancholy face.
“I thought you were one of those teenagers that break in all the time. I should have known it'd be you.”
Smiling innocently, I hoped, I said politely, “May I put my arms down, please?”
He pointed the barrels of the double-barreled shotgun at the floor, and I dropped my hands to my sides.
“What do you mean you should have known it was me?”
“I heard you'uns been running around town asking questions about my wife and Oretta. It was only a matter of time till you showed up here.” He pointed with his chin to the altar, and a look of distaste crossed his face.
“That's true, Mr. Roadcap. I've been attempting to find out who killed them. I'd think you'd be grateful for that… unless you have a reason for not wanting me to learn the truth.”
The gun barrel jerked up-for a moment I thought Stanley really was going to shoot me-then dropped once more toward the floor.
