Page 17 of The Bane Witch

17

Beth Ann’s

I shouldn’t be here. A bitter chill brushes against my skin in the bluing dark, the morning sun trying valiantly to crest the trees and chase away another long night. I couldn’t sleep, rattled as I was by the conclave and the afterparty, not to mention Myrtle, Lattie, and Donna singing “Poison Ivy” by the Coasters at the top of their lungs at 3 A.M . Finally, just before dawn, I tiptoed into the kitchen where I pulled a quilted jacket over a hasty outfit and went outside. But the woods were as restless as I was, their leaves rustling loudly in the shadows, and the women of the venery still felt too close for comfort.

Burrowing my hands in the pockets of Myrtle’s borrowed coat, I found the keys to her ancient Subaru and decided a drive would clear my head. Myrtle probably wouldn’t be up for hours. She’d never even know I’d gone. I was circling the edge of town when the itch struck, a sinister yank at my gut. It felt similar to my poisonous cravings but with a powerful shift, like the wind changing direction. When I couldn’t shake it, I parked along the narrow shoulder and walked down the lonely drive waiting behind the shelter of the trees.

It’s only now, as I stroll up on the familiar firepit, that I realize where I am. But I have no idea why. I let my eyes crawl over the piled stones, the metal ring inside, the black patch of cold ash. Paces away stands her timber house, a muted blue with white trim, dark behind the windows, the front porch just high enough for a raccoon or a possum to slide under. It’s silent. Empty.

Beth Ann —the last victim of the Saranac Strangler.

The trees are still around me, their branches dipping toward the ground like feathers. I look down. My dusky-green suede boots feel louder here, as if my feet are screaming my presence with every trespassing step. I’ve bound the laces too tight. I can feel the strain across the top of my foot. But I don’t bend to loosen them. That would be assuming a vulnerable position. Unwise, I think, given the location. My arms prickle with apprehension.

There is a pattern in the dirt beside the firepit, as if it has been brushed one way and then another. I stare at it, wondering if she struggled, if they fought, if she was dragged like old lumber. Did she try to run? Did she bolt for the cover of the trees? I glance at them sidelong, a barricade of arms, and picture her blond hair flying. Her place feels suddenly like an arena. The stage where people go to die.

Did she even know what was happening?

My heart rate begins to pick up, and the longer I stare, all I can see is that clearing in the woods Henry drove me to. Everything around me transforms, shifting from morning to night, cold to warm, here to there. His long fingers press into my neck as he rocks against me, eager to see the deed finally done. His breath is stale—garlic for lunch, decaying meat. I wanted to believe, when I jumped off that bridge, that I left Henry behind forever. But I realize standing here that he will always haunt me. I’ve made a crucial mistake. I saved my life when I should have taken his.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a familiar voice calls from the drive, echoing my own thoughts.

Everything spins, South Carolina falls away. I startle and look over a shoulder to see Regis coming up, his uniform snug against his thighs and shoulders, the sunlight trailing behind him. When he reaches my side, he crosses his arms.

“You’re up early,” he says, taking in the sloppy state of my dress, the loose layers of my hair.

“I could say the same.”

“This is a crime scene,” he tells me. “And private property.”

I clear my throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to come here. I… It was an accident.”

His eyes find mine, probing, as if they are always asking a question I can’t answer. “You look pale. You okay?”

How can I tell him everything I’ve learned, the weight of it on my chest, what I’ve been asked to do? I worry he sees the three dead men in my eyes, that the danger inside gives me away, but he only looks concerned and my heart clenches.

“Motion sickness,” I lie. “I just needed to pull over for some air.”

He nods as if he believes me, but his eyes cut away. He knows there’s more to it than that. The tether that allows me to read him gives him the same insight into me.

“I met her,” I tell him, staring into the firepit. “On my first day here. She was… nice. She was more than that actually, but I never got the chance to find out what.” When he doesn’t respond, I ask, “Did you know her?”

“I know everybody around here.” He looks at the ground.

It’s not really an answer, but the truth floods into me like biting into a cherry cordial. “She was your girlfriend.”

He stares at me, brows slanted, wonder collecting in the crease between them, then sighs. “Yes, when she first moved here. We hadn’t seen each other in some time. It didn’t end well.”

I don’t ask why. It’s none of my business no matter how desperately I want to know.

“She used to bring maple-iced cookies by the sheriff’s office sometimes with her cat, Snowball. Never knew anyone who had a cat that liked to ride in the car,” he says with a small laugh. “Despite our history, Beth Ann was good people. This shouldn’t have happened to her.”

“Bad things happen to good people all the time, we just don’t like to think about it,” I say. Without thinking, I reach out to squeeze his hand. It’s warm, smooth, more comforting to me than mine probably is to him. He doesn’t let go right away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s a small community,” he finally says. “She’ll be missed.”

“Will he return, do you think?” I ask, casting a furtive glance around. “The Strangler?”

Regis purses his lips. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. “I hope so.” Shock colors my face, and he rushes to explain. “I want to catch this bastard now more than ever. For Beth Ann. For Crow Lake. I don’t want anyone else to die, but I hope he hangs around long enough for me to give him a taste of his own medicine.” His body goes rigid. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. You need to be more careful. He’s not done killing.”

I squat down and press my fingers to the dirt. I can feel something here, braille under the dust, an imprint left by the killer. The ground is saturated with it, like a lingering scent. Standing, I rub my thumb against my fingers and meet the sheriff’s eyes. “He’s circling.”

He pauses, mouth opening. His lips come back together and then he asks, “Circling what?”

“Not what,” I say. “ Who. ”

“His next victim?” The words are shallow, as if there’s no breath behind them. A whistle sounds at the back of his throat. I realize it’s fear.

“Possibly.” Except the answer doesn’t taste right on my tongue. Something in me is expectant, noncommittal, as if I am holding space for the real answer, which will arrive any minute. I feel a powerful urge to lick the ground, to understand.

“You some kind of psychic?” Regis asks. His brows lower as he squares his eyes on me, evaluating. “I wasn’t much of a believer myself, but the department used one out of desperation. She lives in Rochester. Broke open a missing child case we had ten years back. I still can’t explain it.”

“I’m no psychic,” I’m quick to respond. “I’m an interior designer— was a designer. Just have an eye for detail.” The second it’s out I want to swat it from the air like a fly. I cannot be Piers anymore, cannot have her career or backstory, her preference for dark chocolate, her fear of spiders. I must be Acacia now. Acacia who reads cheap paperbacks and eats bacon and wouldn’t know Aubusson tapestry from crewel. My hand goes to my face, a quick swipe across the mouth, as if I can wipe the words away.

He takes a step back, regards me, his dark shirt casting a shadow up his face that swallows the sunlight before it lands on his skin. “You won’t find that kind of work around here.”

I flick my wrist like it’s old news. “It’s in the past. I don’t do that anymore. I’m starting over.”

Something sets behind his jaw, an opinion of me congealing, inflexible as concrete. The wind blows, swooping into our private glade, rustling his hair where it’s grown a little long on top. He’s heard this before, I think. He doesn’t trust a woman without roots. I don’t know where it comes from, this private grasp I have on the sheriff, but it sits at the base of my spine like a marble, wholly formed, irrefutable. Is it part of my power? There is no evil in him; I’m certain of that. He can’t be my next mark. But still he whispers to me. Donna said that I would sense things about men I didn’t want to know. But I want to know everything about Regis Brooks, from his size eleven shoes to the tiny mole above his right ear to the picture of the girl in his house, his sister.

“I want to study botany.” The lie comes easily. Maybe because it’s braced by a kernel of truth. I know in a way I shouldn’t that this will impress him.

A tug at the corners of his mouth wrinkles his beard. “I was a forestry major myself when I started college.”

He smells salty, a hint of aftershave about him like a ring of ambergris and mint. It makes me long for the ocean, July at Folly Beach, the taste of fresh crab. Without meaning to, I lean in. “I thought you might be a fellow tree hugger.”

“Well, you couldn’t have come to a better place,” he tells me, opening, his face turning up to the sun, brows slackening. “The biodiversity in these forests is unlike anywhere else in the Northeast.”

I arch a brow. “Like the mushrooms for instance?”

A laugh escapes him, riding an undercurrent of embarrassment. He hangs his head, nodding. “Right. That’s fair. I guess it makes a little more sense now.”

The wind dies and he glances around, Beth Ann’s house swinging back into view. He’d almost forgotten where we were. “We should probably get out of here.” He seems to recover himself, a stiffness to the neck and shoulders, the mantle of authority.

We’re about to leave when a low crunch sounds to our left, the snap of a twig in the hollow of the woods. Our necks jerk in that direction, and I see Regis’s hand poise on the grip of his gun, a cat ready to pounce. His eyes scour the tree line. “Wait here.”

I watch him step away, moving deliberately toward the forest. In his absence, something stirs, rising from the ground like vapor. It fills me with dread and a cold longing, a fleeting sense of dark need, like hunger and sex rolled into one, without the fever or friction of either. He’s close, it whispers. A tide of nausea hits the back of my throat.

“Stop!” I call just as he enters the shadow of the trees. He pauses and turns, face etched with misgiving. He’s suspended between us, unmoving.

I step toward him, fear urging me to do what’s necessary to protect us, and also a quiet voice from within the danger— Not like this. “We should go.”

Even from here I can see the ripple of uncertainty cross his brow, the way he struggles to trust me but also struggles not to. His shoulders tighten, resisting. For a second, I feel sorry for him. My eyes slide to the trees beyond. I can’t be sure, but it ticks beneath my skin like a pulse, this presence. He’s out there. Somewhere. Watching.

The Strangler.

“Let’s go,” I say, stepping back. The sound of leaves shuffling echoes from within the trees. We are both moving away.

Regis turns, begins to draw his gun, glancing back at me again.

I shake my head, moving toward the drive until I see his shoulders slump. I’ve won. Relief courses through me along with knowing I will meet the Strangler again. When Regis starts toward me, I turn around.

At the car, he takes my elbow, stepping closer than required. His eyes search mine for an impossibly long moment, lips parted, as if there is something he wants to say. I feel his body warm to me, like melting honey, a sliding tension between our hips. I could break it, this moment, with a word, like shattering a glass bulb. But I don’t. I hold it between my breasts, between my lips, for as long as he will let me.

At last, he looks to the ground, clears his throat. “Let’s get that coffee.”