Page 28 of The Bane Witch

28

Ring

I am painfully aware that I’ve just spent my last night with Regis. Soon I’ll begin to feed, and he cannot touch me then. No one can. I haven’t yet determined how I’ll keep my distance, maybe fake an illness or a trip. Considering the complexities swirling in our relationship, it shouldn’t be too hard. I only hope that once I begin, I find the Strangler soon, and finish him.

I return to the cabin and soak in a long, hot bath. When I get out, I crawl into bed and immediately fall asleep. In my dream, I am on a trail, light twinkling through overhead branches, as I follow a man with a hiking pole. His back is ramrod straight, eyes never straying from the path, steps as regular as the hands of a clock. I study him, the creases in the back of his shirt, the curl of his fingers on the rubber grip of his hiking pole. Something doesn’t feel right, and the feeling gnaws at me, adamant and disturbing. I gain on him, certain this must mean he is the one I’m searching for, the murderer I am meant to kill. As I get close enough to touch him, a scent warns me off, both familiar and repulsive, a cologne I know and detest. But it is too late, I am laying my hand upon his shoulder and spinning him around, ready to make my move. Only it isn’t the Saranac Strangler. It is Henry, and in my shock, I am too slow. One hand reaches out to throttle me as the other raises the pole, the sharpened carbide tip aimed at my heart.

I wake to Myrtle shaking me feverishly. “Get up, Piers. Now. You need to see this.”

Groggily, I rise from bed and follow her into the living room, registering that it is early morning. “What time is it?” I ask with a yawn.

Her eyes pierce mine as she directs me to the TV screen. Don’s car, abandoned in the Syracuse cemetery, is emblazoned across it, and a reporter is explaining how it was found to be in association with the roadside death of a Washington, DC, man in Virginia, poisoned with pokeweed berries. “Police now suspect foul play,” she is saying gravely, “and are asking anyone who has seen this woman to come forward for questioning.”

A fuzzy video of me, frantic and with a fresh dye job, fleeing the hotel lobby in Charleston in my crappy Miami T-shirt plays on a loop in the corner of the screen.

“She was seen leaving the victim’s hotel with him in Charleston, South Carolina,” the reporter explains. “A ring was also missing from the victim’s belongings; an anniversary present from his wife, commissioned for him only last year. Stolen, they believe, by the person responsible for his death, and possibly the key to finding the truth.”

An up-close image of the signet ring I took flashes across the screen in all its unique detail. Myrtle waltzes over and turns off the set. My stomach bottoms out.

“You let yourself be recorded,” she admonishes.

“I didn’t realize. I didn’t even know any of this then. It was an accident. I was trying to get a ride out of the city before Henry—”

“The venery will not like this, Piers. Not one bit.” She paces back and forth, practically wearing a groove into the thick boards at her feet.

“Any chance they won’t have seen it?”

She shoots me a look that could turn anyone to stone. “If it’s playing on the news here, then I doubt it. You brought that car across state lines to New York. Do you know what that means? FBI will be involved. He was a political consultant, a high-profile figure in Washington. You’ve turned this into a national manhunt.”

“I had no other way to get here!” I counter. But it doesn’t matter. Myrtle is right; I’m screwed whether I deserve it or not.

She comes over and rubs my upper arms briskly, as if she’s trying to warm me up. “Shhh… It’s okay. We’ll figure this out. I’ve just got to think. I need a defense planned before they call.” She turns to stare out the window, as if the answer is waiting in the dark. What I can see of her face pales. “What if Sheriff Brooks sees this?”

I crumple to my knees as I recall the night that I arrived. I’d put Don’s ring on the counter as payment to anyone who would take me to Crow Lake. He’ll recognize it. The second he learns about Don, he’ll put it together with the man in the café and Ed. He’ll never believe me again.

“At least your hair is different,” she says. “We can recolor it. Something close but not quite so red. Men never notice those kinds of things. He’ll think it was always that way. And the video is just bad enough. If he says anything, refute it. Deny, deny, deny.” She glances back, sees me on the floor, and rushes over, lifting me by my elbows. “You did nothing wrong. No matter what it looks like. They won’t be able to prove this. No one up here will even place you in that video besides the sheriff.”

But Regis is not the only person I am worried about. There is someone else who will know my face, my build, instantly. It won’t matter that I colored my hair or put on new clothes. If Henry sees this report—which is surely playing in Charleston now that I’ve been connected to Don and the hotel—he will know everything. That I didn’t drown, didn’t die. That I fled. That I planned it all. That I am here, in New York.

And he will come for me.

“He saw the ring,” I tell her. “I stole it from the car, and Regis saw me with it, Myrtle. He’ll know. The second he sees this, he’ll know.”

Her lips pull tight with fear. “Then you must convince him you are innocent, Piers. Use your allure, his attraction to you, your insight into the Strangler case—whatever you have to. But make him believe they got it wrong. Because they did. They always do.”

I shake my head, tears beginning to spill over. “I don’t know, Aunt Myrtle. I don’t know if I can do that. I’m not like you. I’m not good at this.”

She wipes them swiftly away, cupping my cheeks in her hands. “Of course, you can,” she tells me, summoning a confidence I know she doesn’t feel. “You’re a bane witch. Never forget it.”

M YRTLE WOULD NOT approve. She wanted me to wait until he confronted me. She wanted me to deny it. She wanted me to overpower him with my allure, as if I even know how. She wanted me safe. But I can’t sleep. And I can’t keep lying in bed, wondering if he knows, if he’ll show up tomorrow with handcuffs and drag me away. I don’t want to wait, and I’m tired of running; I’ve been running since Charleston. Running since Henry and I first met. Running since I left my mother and Gerald behind. Running since I was that little girl eating pokeweed berries under a full moon. I don’t care what happens to me as long as I can finally be me, as long as I can belong to myself.

It must be after three in the morning when I pull into his drive. Myrtle was snoring in the next room, so I took the car, a habit I am getting stupidly accustomed to. I expect to find him in bed, dead asleep. Expect that he will answer the door with mussed hair and bleary eyes like he did a few nights ago, a note of vexation at being woken, summoned at such an ungodly hour, by me no less.

But when I pull up, he’s in the harsh glare of an overzealous outdoor light, chopping wood in his long underwear and a loose flannel shirt, his boots pulled up to his calves, sloppily laced. Even in the frigid night, there is a gleam of perspiration at his hairline. I turn the car off and get out.

“We need to talk,” I say.

He casts a bitter glance at me, swings his ax, and brings it down hard on the block of wood he’s splitting. “I think you’ve done enough talking,” he says.

I know then that he’s seen. And he hates me for it. For lying to him, he believes. For killing the innocent.

“Regis, you have to let me explain.” I take a step in his direction.

He holds the ax at arm’s length, pointing it at me. “I don’t have to do anything of the kind. I’ve given you so many chances, Acacia. So many chances to let me in, to tell me who you really are, to prove you’re not…” He can’t finish. The ax falls limply to his side.

“That I’m not what ? A murderer? Is that what you were going to say? Is that what you believe I am?”

He looks at me from the corner of his eye, tormented, distrusting. “It’s generally what we call someone who kills someone else.”

I nod my head, press my lips between my teeth. “I’m not a murderer,” I tell him. “But I am a killer.”

He faces me now, aghast that I’ve said it so plainly. His jaw can’t quite form the words.

“The problem,” I go on, “is that there isn’t a word for what I am exactly, not in your circles.”

“What circles are those?” he shoots back.

“Legal ones—law enforcement, government.”

He swings the ax again, splits the block into threes, tosses each piece onto a pile off to the side. Then he turns in my direction, leaning against the tree trunk. “So, in what circles is there a word for you?”

I look down at my feet and try to clear my mind before answering. When I look up, he is waiting, face skeptical, arms crossed, as if he can’t imagine what I’ll come up with this time. “Secret ones,” I reply.

He shakes his head and turns for the house. “I’m not listening to this.”

I grab his arm. “Please. Just hear me out. It’s not a story; it’s real. Haven’t you wondered how ?”

That gets his attention. He pulls my hand off and my heart shudders in my chest.

“The man who took your sister,” I begin. “He wasn’t very old. Late twenties maybe, early thirties.” I watch his eyes widen, the lids shrinking back with shock, his curiosity more than he can refuse. “Looked like a regular young man, someone that could have sacked your groceries. He drove a blue truck with a dented fender. I bet you’re wondering how he got her inside, aren’t you? I bet it’s eaten at you all these years.”

Regis just stares at me, a film of tears beginning to wash over his eyes.

“She loved kittens, didn’t she? Your sister, Tanya. He didn’t know that, but he knew most kids came running where animals were involved. He had a box of five-week-old kittens on the seat, a litter he’d gathered from a junk lot near his house. Told her there were more nearby, that he’d give her one for free if she helped him catch them.”

The tears slide down his face and he staggers on his feet. I rush to his side to make sure he doesn’t fall. When I know he’s steady, I place a hand over his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you. I just didn’t know how else to get you to believe me.”

“She’d been begging my parents for a cat for years, but our mother was allergic,” he finally manages. “It’s hard to explain that to a child, though. And Tanya was more stubborn than most.”

“We should go inside,” I tell him. “Get out of the cold.”

He nods wearily, opens his door for me. “After you.”

Inside, he heats two mugs of water, digs out fresh tea bags, sets them before us. “When, how did she die?” he asks once he’s gotten the courage.

The scenes spark through my mind, grisly and devastating—the duct tape, the reddened hammer. I shake my head. “She didn’t last long,” I tell him quietly. “Not even twenty-four hours.”

He winces, stares down into his cup, stirs it absently with a sugar spoon.

I lay a hand on his arm. It’s the only comfort I can give. “It was fast,” I tell him. “And that was a mercy.”

He doesn’t ask for the details, and I am grateful. “If he were still alive,” I tell Regis, “I’d kill him myself.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that for me,” he’s quick to reply.

“I wouldn’t do it for you,” I tell him. “I’d do it for her. And for all the others like her who could have been spared.”

He studies me, thoughts shuttered away where I can’t read them. After several long minutes, he says, “Are you part of a secret society, is that what you’re telling me? Some kind of underground network of female assassins? Vigilantes?”

His accuracy smacks me in the ribs. For a second, I can’t draw air. “Actually, yes. That is what I’m telling you.”

His eyes squeeze shut. “I thought you were going to be honest with me.”

“I am,” I answer. “As honest as I can be. I am part of a circle of women—all related—who kill men guilty of horrific crimes. My mother, my grandmother, Aunt Myrtle—it’s who we are.”

He rubs at his face. “You poison them?”

“Yes.” I don’t look away as I answer. I want him to see the truth in my eyes.

“With mushrooms?”

“With our bodies.” I don’t even blink.

He starts slightly, scrutinizes me to see if I have a tell, if I am giving myself away somehow. But I am as still as the lake itself. “You mean you—”

“We eat the mushrooms, yes. Or the berries. Or the roots or leaves or stems or flowers. We happily eat whatever part is most toxic, and we transfer that poison to our victims.”

He blinks. “Are you sure you want to be telling me this?”

“Yes,” I respond. “No. I’m not supposed to tell anyone, least of all you. But…”

He waits patiently.

“Lying to you is impossible,” I say with a sigh. “The other night, when you warned me about the autopsy—you wanted to help me because you care. Well, that’s what I’m doing now.”

“You’re warning me?” he asks.

“I’m trying to help because I care,” I clarify. “Maybe it would be better to keep you in the dark, only you won’t stay there. You’re stumbling blindly into something you don’t really understand. And that could get dangerous.”

“For me?” he asks now, a little incredulous.

“For both of us,” I emphasize.

He frowns. “I don’t understand. How does it work? Do you build up a tolerance? Is it genetic?”

“It’s magic,” I say simply.

He laughs. “Right.”

“Do you want answers or not?” I sip my tea, return the mug to the table.

“You’re serious.” He doesn’t ask, he states it. He sees it as plainly as the mug before him.

“Deadly.” I give him a small smile. “The man in the café? I spit into his coffee after I saw what he did to his wife. Don, the man from the news reports? He forced himself on me, tried to rape me. It happened when he kissed me. I don’t take credit for his loss. He did it to himself.”

Regis looks like he can’t believe what he is hearing, and yet he must, because he just sits there, staring, trying to piece it all together in his mind. “And Ed?” he asks.

My eyes water. “Ed was different. We found him on the brink of death already, suffering. His pain was so great. We knew help would never arrive in time. I promised to give him relief, and then I kissed him goodbye.”

“Jesus.” He spins his cup on the table, processing. When he looks at me, his eyes are sharp as flint. “Acacia, tell me the truth. Did you kill your husband?”

“Henry?” I laugh bitterly. “No. A missed opportunity I will regret for the rest of my days. Of everyone, he is the one I should have taken out. But there was so much I still didn’t understand then, and I was desperate to escape. That’s why I’m helping you, I suppose.”

“Helping me?” He looks confused. His chin tucks. His brow crinkles.

“To get the Saranac Strangler. A kind of penance, I guess, for leaving Henry alive to possibly hurt someone else.”

His eyes narrow. “You said ‘get,’ not catch. You don’t want to help me arrest him, do you? You want to kill him.”

“Doesn’t he deserve it?” I ask.

“That’s not for us to decide,” he says firmly.

Ah, the good cop. I see myself in him now as the venery must have seen me—the naivete, the ignorance. I smile. “Isn’t it? This is our community. You’re an authority in maintaining law and order, and I’m a female victim of domestic and sexual violence. Surely, there is no one more qualified than us.”

His mouth opens silently and hovers there. It takes him a long moment to collect himself. “You know that’s not how it works.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” I tell him calmly, sipping my tea. “Maybe it doesn’t work as it is.”

He shakes his head. “This sounds like a confession, but what you’re telling me is preposterous. By all accounts you’re either lying or mad. I can’t take this into the department without being laughed out of the building, but I can’t let you walk away. Tell me what I’m supposed to do here, Acacia.”

“Piers,” I correct him. “That’s my real name. You might as well know it, though you likely already do by now. I would appreciate if you keep up the pseudonym for public appearances. No point in confusing everyone. And Henry is still out there. I’d rather not give him any opportunity to find me and finish what he started. It’s enough to have one killer on my trail.”

“Are you saying the Strangler is after you? Aca—I mean, Piers, did something happen? Did you see him? Did he confront you?”

I hold the hot tea under my chin, enjoying the comfort of the steam. There’s no point holding back now. “Not yet, but he will soon. And when he does, I’ll be ready for him.”

He scratches at his head, frustration mounting as he tries to complete the picture without all of the pieces. “Why would he come after you?”

“We call it the allure. It attracts our victims to us, like a magnetic force. He’s been circling me this whole time, closing in. I can’t let another woman fall in my place. The next encounter must be mine, and I must be ready. It means I’ll have to begin feeding.” I lay a hand on his wrist. “There can be nothing more between us once that starts. Do you understand? I can’t risk harming you. I have to save my strength for the Strangler.”

He wants to think I’m crazy. That would be easier to swallow. But he’s the sheriff; he’s seen psychosis and delusion, psychopathy and hallucinations. He knows what instability looks like. By comparison, I am rock steady, firm as the mountains encircling us and just as sure. He can read my conviction even if it challenges his understanding of reality. And he knows, more than anything, that what I told him about his sister is true. He knows it in his heart.

“I can’t stay,” I tell him, rising.

He gets up. “You’re leaving? You show up here and deliver this outrageous story, expect me to believe you, to do nothing, and then just pull out? Am I supposed to pretend this didn’t happen? Let you risk yourself chasing this perpetrator? Not report your previous crimes—three counts of murder, fraud when you faked your own suicide?”

I stare at him. Cautiously, I take a step in his direction. When he doesn’t pull away, I lean in and place my lips on his. The heat floods my chest and face. Lower still, my nerves beg for more. His lips part against mine, and despite his misgivings, his body cannot deny its truth—he wants me. Even now.

When I pull away, I am filled with sadness. I caress his cheek before stepping back. “I can’t tell you what to do or not to do with the information I’ve given, only this—stay out of my way.”

His face reddens as if slapped. “Piers…”

“I’m not your enemy, Regis.” My eyes burn through his. I feel Myrtle’s words in my veins. I am a bane witch. And I will never forget it. “Don’t become mine.”

“Wait.” His arms shoot out, strong hands gripping mine. “Let me help you.”

Now it is my turn to stumble in shock.

“If I can’t stop you, what other choice do I have? We both want to bring this guy down. What you and your aunt are doing, it’s not my way. But my way didn’t save Tanya, and it didn’t save whoever came after. This community is everything to me. I won’t let him rip it apart any more than he already has. And more than that, I need you safe. I know what’s between us is new and complicated, but… Can’t you see the effect you have on me? I want this. I need you in my life.”

My lips part, and my heart catches in my chest.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he continues, “but maybe we can work together. This time.”

I take in every morsel of him, from the sincerity in his gaze to the firmness of his bite, the square of his shoulders, his steady hands. He means it. Every word.

“What did you have in mind?”