Dayle reeled around, grabbing the barrel from Rafferty and shoving it into a corner of the garage. “Of course we kept the clothing. This may not be New York City, like you’re used to, but it isn’t Mayberry, either.”
They stood there looking at each other for a long moment. “Sorry,” Rafferty said. “That was uncalled for.”
“It’s probably in that box you can’t seem to find,” Dayle muttered.
“Probably,” Rafferty said.
Dayle stood looking at him.
“I’m guessing you’re not going to invite me in.”
“Hell, no.”
“Merry Christmas then,” Rafferty said and walked back to his car.
Rafferty sat in his car at the end of the dead-end street. He watched as Dayle closed the garage door behind him, then walked into the kitchen, passing the front window of the cape. He saw him pick up the wall phone and dial.
Rafferty pulled the car around, swearing as the cruiser didn’t quite make the U-turn, forcing him to back up and pass Tom Dayle’s house once again. He slowed his car.
This time he saw Dayle open the cellar door and flip on the stair lights.
Late that same afternoon, Rafferty officially reopened the investigation.
That these Witches have driven a Trade of Commissioning their Confederate Spirits, to do all sorts of Mischiefs to the Neighbours, whereupon there have Ensued such Mischievous consequences upon the Bodies, and Estates of the Neighbourhood, as could not otherwise be accounted for…
—COTTON MATHER, The Wonders of the Invisible World
True to his word, Paul had transformed the spa in the wine cellar into a healing room, moving the couch into the center of the cavern and adding a treatment table for massage. He’d cleaned the floor and polished the wooden rim of the sea well and placed an Aubusson rug on the granite to mute some of the harsher acoustics, cutting the floor-to-ceiling movement of energy in favor of the clockwise ellipse Callie had told him she needed. He’d hung a still life of apples and oranges on the wall opposite the couch and placed small tables around the perimeter of the room to hold the singing bowls.
Emily and Callie marveled at the work he had done.
Callie had treated Emily upstairs twice. Today would be the third time, and already she could see signs of improvement. Emily’s color was better, and she had more energy. “You’re doing well with this, I think,” she said.
Emily agreed.
When it was clear Paul’s mother wasn’t going to describe the change, Callie made her way around the room, adjusting the bowls and then testing the four tiny speakers Paul had placed strategically in the rock crevices. She smiled to herself; he was amazingly thorough.
“Ready to get started?”
Emily nodded, relaxing back into the cushions of the couch.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you how Rose is doing. I heard she’s had a bit of a setback.”
“She’s better, I think. Thanks for asking.” Callie didn’t elaborate. She didn’t want to stress Emily with her worries about Rose’s impending release. When she’d visited the hospital yesterday, after hearing about the exhumation, she’d had to enter through Ambulatory Care to avoid the growing group of protesters at the main entrance, who’d also discovered her preferred route inside. These hysterics were carrying signs that said KILL THE BANSHEE or DRIVE THE DEVIL FROM THE WITCH CITY.
“Before we start today, tell me about your experience with chemo,” Callie said.
“I stopped it.”
“I understand,” Callie said. “Do you remember what they were giving you?”
Emily easily recited the names of four different drugs. “The last two were trials my doctor got me into.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I felt like I was being poisoned,” Emily said.
“You were,” Callie said. “In a sense. Or at least the cancer was.”
Emily nodded.
“In a way, chemo isn’t that much different from sound. The right amount of chemo can heal you, but too much can harm you. Sound waves can be like that, too.”
Emily grew thoughtful. “I seem to remember hearing something about the government testing some sound-wave weapon in the desert that was strong enough to cause earthquakes.”
That wouldn’t have surprised Callie a bit. From what she’d seen of sound healing, she had come to believe almost any effect was possible. Even infrasound, though largely undetectable to the human ear, had been proven to have odd effects on perception and behavior.
“So you decided on your own to stop the drug test?”
“They took me off the last round. Liver damage. But I’d already decided I’d had enough. Much to the disapproval of my family.”
Callie didn’t express an opinion. Though she could tell that Emily was looking for approval, she’d learned not to comment on something so personal. The truth was, she did approve. The damage she saw on Emily right now seemed more an effect of chemo than one of cancer. But it was difficult to tell how much the chemo had helped before it had taken its toll.
Callie circled the rims of the bowls with a rubber wand, the vibrations building as they began to sing, softly at first, then louder, until they were singing in harmony. As more of the bowls joined in the song, the ellipses the vibrations created overlapped, crisscrossing as they passed over and through every surface they touched, vibrating and opening Emily’s chakras, unblocking the energy trapped in her muscles, letting her chi flow freely. Callie joined the harmony, intoning the notes that were the universal vibrations of joy and gratitude, directing them with intention toward the unhealthy cells in Emily’s liver, in an effort to resonate those cells back to health and harmony. The volume increased until it filled every space in the room.
Though the session went well, and Callie could see signs of improvement, she felt distracted. Against both Rose’s and Rafferty’s advice, she had called the reporter and consented to the interview. She had to do something, she told herself, and Rafferty hadn’t said it wouldn’t work; he’d said it might not. And to just sit and wait for the harassment to start when Rose was released seemed more like courting the strike than the interview did. Maybe by telling her story, she could change things.
For the sake of privacy, she’d agreed to meet The Salem Journal reporter in Beverly. When she finally found a parking space and walked into the Atomic Cafe, he was already sitting in a booth, his micro–tape recorder beside him.
“Coffee?” the reporter offered. “I’m buying.”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” she said, sitting down and picking up the napkin from the place setting in front of her.
It seemed longer than a month since she’d told Rafferty the story of how Rose had saved her life, how she had gone back to save the others. It was more difficult to tell it today, the feelings all coming back to her at once—including the sick feeling the details created in the pit of her stomach. She was aware that the reporter noticed she’d been shredding the paper napkin as she was speaking. Now she crumpled it and placed it on the table.