“Do you think it was the blood from later that night? There was a lot of blood spilled on Proctor’s Ledge.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It might have been. But I think I may have conjured it…from something Rose said to me yesterday.”
“What was that?”
Callie hesitated. She didn’t want to make more trouble for Rose.
“Tell me.”
“When she was upset yesterday, Rose shouted, ‘God will give you blood to drink,’?” Callie admitted, waiting for Rafferty’s reaction. “Zee said Rose heard someone say it on the hill the night of the murders.”
Rafferty bristled. He’d never heard this bit of information. Doctor-patient confidentiality would forbid Zee from sharing it with him, but confidentiality could be ignored in the face of imminent danger. Of course this wasn’t exactly imminent. The danger had passed twenty-five years ago.
“Did you hear the statement the night of the murders?”
“I don’t think so,” Callie said nervously. “I know I’ve heard it before, but I don’t think it was that night. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out what it means.”
“I know what it means,” Ann said.
“You do?” Rafferty turned to her.
“You could have heard or read it anywhere; it’s very famous. It’s a quote from Sarah Good, one of the accused witches. She said it when she knew she was going to hang. There’s more to her speech than that, though that’s the part most often quoted. You can look it up.”
“Did Rose say who uttered the quote that night?” Rafferty asked.
Callie hesitated. She didn’t want to answer in front of Ann. But Rafferty was waiting. And this was important. “Rose says it was the banshee.”
Rafferty had offered to give Callie a ride back to the house. They sat in silence as the cruiser pulled out.
“So much for keeping my identity a secret,” Callie said. “Ann obviously knows who I am now.”
“I’d say she’s known for a while,” Rafferty said. “You have to admit, she was pretty helpful with her insights.”
Callie wasn’t so sure.
“I know going to Hammond Castle was difficult for you, but it might have triggered a memory that could be very helpful in discovering who killed your mother and the others. Is there anything else you remember?”
Callie replayed the vision and lingered on it for a long moment before speaking again. “They were arguing about Leah Kormos at the party before she got there: my mother and Susan and Cheryl. My mother said it was against the rules to go to the man upstairs without Leah; that it had to be all of them together. Cheryl said the rules had already been broken, that Leah was the one who had broken them.”
“Rules? What do you mean? They had rules?” Rafferty asked.
“Evidently.”
She was silent for a long time. “I think Ann might be right. I think Leah Kormos might be the killer.”
They didn’t speak again on the ride back to the house. Callie looked out the window, thinking about the eyes that had stared back at her from the bed. She shivered.
Rafferty pulled the cruiser in next to her car and shut off the engine. He turned to her.
“So what else aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” she lied.
“Callie,” he said, holding her gaze. “I’ve been a cop for a long time.”
She sighed.
“Every memory you have gets us one step closer to finding your mother’s killer.”
“This wasn’t a memory. It was a dream.” Callie shook her head. “I have no illusion it was real. It’s just not important.”
“Why don’t you let me decide what’s important?”
“It was a weird party.”
He waited. When she didn’t reply, he prompted her. “What about the guy on the bed? This…Dad.”
She shivered.
“Tell me about him again.”
A blush was creeping into Callie’s cheeks.
“What didn’t you want to say in front of Ann?”
“Look, I already told you I don’t know if any of this is real—if there was even a man—or a room—that night! And the man I saw on the bed…it isn’t possible he was in the room.”
“Why not?”
Callie took a breath before continuing. “Because the man I saw on the bed was Paul Whiting.”
Rafferty said nothing as she got out of the cruiser and unlocked her car door. Finally, he leaned out his window. “That’s the reason you were so angry with Paul when he dropped you off earlier?”
Callie nodded, feeling the color burning in her cheeks.
“You realize he wasn’t even born until later that year.”
“Yes.”
“I think you owe that young man an explanation. And probably an apology.”
She had to knock on the boathouse door several times before he opened it.
“What the hell?” He looked annoyed. Then, seeing who it was, he stopped, staring at her.
“I lied to you,” she said.
“What?”
“I lied to you about who I am.”
Callie guessed that there was only a small window of opportunity before Ann told him the story, if she hadn’t already. But that wasn’t why she was telling him. Callie really wanted it to come from her. After she told him, there was something equally important she had to do. But first things first.
“My name isn’t Callie O’Neill, it’s Callie Cahill.” She looked at him for signs of recognition. He stared at her blankly. “I was the little girl who survived the Goddess Murders.”
He stood framed by the doorway, looking at her as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was hearing. Finally, he stepped back and opened the door to let her in.
Two hours later, on her way back to Salem, she stopped at CVS and bought herself a flashlight.
I am no more a witch than you are a wizard, and if you take away my life, God will give you blood to drink.
—SARAH GOOD, 1692
Rafferty sat in his office staring at Sarah Good’s words. Ann was right, it was a famous quote, and often taken out of context, which made Good’s curse seem more threatening. In some ways, her accusation was typical of the hysteria; she was outspoken and definitely an outsider. She was also in debt from a first marriage, something her second husband (also her accuser) inherited. But what struck Rafferty most about Sarah was the fact that her young daughter, Dorcas Good, was also accused. Four years old at the time she was arrested, the child sat abandoned and neglected in Salem Jail for several months, long after the execution of her mother. After she was finally released, she was never the same, and had to be cared for all of her life.
In different ways, the story of Sarah Good and her daughter reminded him of the Goddesses. He thought of Olivia and Callie, of course. The wronged mother, the daughter who suffered after her loss. He also thought of Rose. Dorcas Good, whose real name was Dorothy, was mentally ill like Rose, an affliction blamed on her lengthy incarceration under horrendous conditions. When she was finally released, she was broken, in much the same manner that Rose had been broken. Neither was ever the same again.