“The bowl? You’ve never objected before,” Callie replied, confused. Then, as the sound of the singing bowl faded, Callie heard the news at noon blaring from the next room. Many of the elderly women at All Saints’ Home, where Callie worked as a music therapist, had some degree of hearing loss, so the television in the rec room was always cranked high.
“The TV,” Margie said. “It’s bothering me.”
“Hang on.” Callie held up a finger and headed next door. “I’ll be right back.”
She closed the door behind her and walked into the hall. The smell of boiled cauliflower hung in the air. She poked her head into the rec room. The set was tuned to WCVB. “We were there for the entire week,” a newscaster intoned. “We saw witches, pirates, and even an ugliest dog contest, as we do every year when we cover Halloween in Salem. And though it has been hokey and even otherworldly at times, it has always been safe and family friendly.”
“Not always,” the second newscaster commented.
“Too loud?” asked Edith as Callie walked in. Edith was one of the ladies who refused to come to Callie’s music therapy sessions, even though Callie knew her arthritis was truly painful. She’d have to talk with Sister Ernestine—she’d be the one to convince Edith to join.
“Just a tad, Edith. May I have the remote?”
Callie turned to the screen as the broadcaster said, “A killer banshee.”
The image shifted to a photo of an old woman pushing a cart. Her hair was long and white and wild, and it seemed to trail in her wake. She had a hateful look on her face. Underneath, the caption read: THE BANSHEE OF SALEM.
Callie stared at the screen. The woman looked so familiar, yet she couldn’t quite place her.
“If looks could kill,” the first newscaster said.
“Seems like they just might have,” the other rejoined. “The alleged, and I stress that word, the alleged homeless killer banshee’s name is Rose Whelan.”
The remote clattered to the ground.
“If that name rings a bell for some of our longtime viewers, it should,” the second newscaster said. “Rose Whelan was once the prime suspect in Salem’s still unsolved Goddess Murders.”
Callie couldn’t speak. She did not reach for the remote but stood staring at the television and rubbing her left hand.
“Are you okay, dear?” asked Edith.
“The young victim’s name has not yet been released, pending notification of his family.”
Callie leaned down to retrieve the dropped remote, and Edith saw something on the young woman’s left hand she had never noticed before. “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked. Was it a tattoo of some kind? No, not a tattoo. A burn maybe? Or a scar. Whatever it was cast a shadow across the young woman’s palm. The older woman took a closer look. It was a scar. Why had she never noticed it before? Symmetrical and centered on Callie’s palm was the image of Edith’s favorite flower, a rose.
No Christian burial was allowed for those hanged for witchcraft in 1692. However, the account of Rebecca Nurse’s son rowing six miles down the North River to recover his mother’s body and give her a proper burial is well documented. Later, though no one knows exactly when, the remains of the others accused and executed that dark year simply disappeared from the crevasse into which their bodies were unceremoniously dumped. Logically, the question follows: Where did they go?
—ROSE WHELAN, The Witches of Salem
Rafferty walked Barry Marcus out of the police station. Except for the diamond stud in one ear, the lawyer looked the way you hoped a successful defense attorney would look on his way to court: dark blue suit, white shirt, red-and-blue-striped tie. Rafferty fastened his coat, covering yesterday’s rumpled button-down shirt, now sporting a coffee stain on its breast pocket.
Shortly after sunrise, Rose had been transported to Salem Hospital via ambulance. Rafferty had her taken out the back door of the station and instructed the ambulance crew to drive down Jefferson Avenue to Salem Hospital’s rear entrance and take her in through the emergency room for admission. “You know you can’t hold her,” Barry was saying to him now. “You can’t even charge her without the kid’s autopsy results. Last time I checked, yelling at a juvenile delinquent who’s threatening you with a knife wasn’t a crime.”
“There are no plans to formally charge her. Not yet, anyway. She’s in the hospital on the orders of her doctor, Zee Finch.”
They stepped outside into the morning glare as a reporter shoved a microphone in Rafferty’s face.
“Is it true you’ve found a link between last night’s killing and the Goddess Murders?”
“Who told you that?” Rafferty asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
“Several people,” the reporter replied in a goading tone.
“Well, they don’t know what they’re talking about.” As soon as he said it, he saw Barry raise an eyebrow, and Rafferty regretted the remark. He was exhausted. He’d had at least six cups of coffee, not counting the one he’d spilled on himself, and he hadn’t been home at all, hadn’t even called Towner to give her an update.
As they walked away, Barry leaned in. “Next time, just say ‘No comment.’?”
When they pulled up to the hospital, it was swarming with news teams.
“Is it true she killed a kid with her voice?”
“She’s a descendant of a witch, is that right?”
“Did Satan make her do it?”
“What’s wrong with you people? You can’t kill someone with your voice!” Rafferty wanted to shout right back. But all he did was glance at Barry Marcus and say, “No comment.”
The two men made their way to the locked psych ward on the seventh floor, passing through the security doors to find Zee waiting for them. She and Barry greeted each other.
“What happened to your face?” Barry asked, noticing Zee’s bandage.
“Rose happened,” Rafferty said.
“I’d like to see the confession,” Zee said, her hand on Rose’s door.
“I told her that was your call,” Rafferty explained.
Barry reached into his briefcase and handed Zee a copy of the torn page from Rose’s journal. She read it over a few times before she looked up. “This can’t be admissible, can it?” She handed the paper back to Barry.
“If and when the time comes, that would certainly be my argument. Let’s go in. It goes without saying,” Barry added, “but I’ll say it for the record: She will have no visitors while she is here—family and attending physicians only.”
“I’ve already left that order,” Zee said. “And I’ll rebrief the staff about HIPAA compliance. We’re going to have to hold a commitment hearing to keep her here.”
“Not for any legal reason,” Barry said.
“She’s a murder suspect,” Rafferty said. “That’s legal reason enough.”
“Not to hospitalize her, it isn’t.”
“On my orders. For her own protection,” Zee said. “I’ve been treating Rose for some time. But she clearly needs hospitalization now. Still, we have to follow procedures, since she’s unresponsive.”
Barry nodded. “Who’s the judge?”
“Usually Tremblay.”