Witch Woman Read online

  Chapter 2

  Annie wiped the milk moustache from the little girl's mouth. "There you are, lovey, all better now." With a teaspoon, she scooped up a tiny bit of scrambled egg. "One more bite and you'll be finished."

  The child was seated in a kitchen chair, propped up on a cushion. The rosebud mouth remained firmly closed.

  "Come on, sweetheart," Annie coaxed her. "This is the last of it. Finish your plate and I'll turn on the television, just in time for Bugs Bunny."

  Keeping her lips sealed, the child stared at her solemnly.

  Annie sighed. Were children normally so silent? Didn't they babble and point and cry? Surely a child this age would know a few words. "Why won't you talk to me?" she asked. "Tell me your name." She pointed to herself. "Ann-ie," she said slowly, breaking up the name. "Ann-ie." She touched the small chest. "What's your name?"

  She didn't really expect an answer. Every morning for the last week, their ritual had been repeated. Annie would wake up the little girl, make breakfast, usually cream-of-wheat or oatmeal, occasionally eggs or French toast. The child wolfed down the custard-soaked bread. She definitely had a sweet tooth. Then Annie would turn on the television for an hour of cartoons while the toddler sat, mesmerized, too caught up in the color and movement to even blink. It was almost as if she had never seen a television before.

  After that, Annie would dress her in the clothes she'd bought for her at Woolworth's and the two of them would walk to the Green or down to the wharf where the child would chase seagulls or stick her head between the railings of the pier and watch the pelicans dive down from the pilings to scoop up schools of fish in their gigantic beaks. Through all of this she was silent.

  On the way back, Annie would stop for a bag of fried quahogs and French fries, probably not the healthiest food for a growing girl, but delicious all the same. At home she would serve up soup, a sandwich with the crusts cut off, and diced apples or oranges small enough for the tiny fingers to manipulate. Tired from her exercise, the child would sleep for at least two hours after lunch. If Annie didn't wake her, she would sleep longer. Her sleep cycles seemed to be confused. She would wake in the wee hours of the morning, usually around two or three o'clock and, without moving, stare at the ceiling or out the window until she fell asleep again. Annie, who rarely slept more than a few hours at a time anymore, would wake with her and watch until she drifted off once more.

  Sometimes Annie would sleep, too. But most of the time she thought about Thomas and the little girl and the strange circumstances surrounding her appearance. She caught herself wondering if it were possible to adopt the little girl permanently, but then disregarded the idea. No one would allow a fifty-year-old widow to adopt a baby. Why, then, hadn't she called Child Services? A week had passed. Time was running out. Annie was no expert when it came to the law but she had a strong feeling that keeping a stray child was a crime. And then there was the problem of her muteness. Annie knew she should take the child to a pediatrician, but doctors asked questions about vaccinations and medical records.

  Pondering her dilemma yet another time, she came to the same conclusion she had the day before and the one before that, the only one left to her. Annie would take the child to Laurie Cabot. The irony of needing Laurie did not escape her, but despite all that had come between them, Annie knew the wiccan could be trusted. Laurie knew more about alternative medicine than anyone else. Maybe she had a cure for children who couldn't speak.

  Now that she'd come to a decision, Annie's confidence returned. She settled the little girl into the corner of the couch, tucked a blanket around her and turned on the television. Then she picked up the phone and dialed Laurie's number.

  * * *

  Laurie Cabot lived off Canal Street in a small, gray-shingled house with a screened, wrap-around porch. Pink geraniums and ivy bloomed in the window boxes and two rocking chairs complete with a pair of gray, short-haired cats curled up on cushions, welcomed her visitors.

  Holding the toddler firmly by the hand, Annie lifted the door knocker and let it fall. Immediately a loud gong sounded inside the house. The child flinched and moved closer to Annie. Obviously there was nothing wrong with her hearing.

  Laurie, wearing a cowl-neck sweater and a woolen jumper with her hair pulled back into a large bun at the nape of her neck, looked more like someone's maiden aunt than a witch. She welcomed them inside. "Careful," she warned, "don't let the cats in. My allergies are terrible today." The smaller one slipped in between Annie's legs before Laurie could close the door. "Oh dear. She'll be impossible to catch."

  Annie frowned. If the most powerful wiccan in Salem couldn't control her own allergies, this visit didn't look promising. "I won't stay long."

  Laurie led them into the parlor and gestured toward the worn couch and over-stuffed chairs. "Please, sit down. I've made tea and pound cake." She glanced at the child. "Maybe a glass of milk would be better. Wait here."

  Annie sat on the couch, lifted the child to her lap and looked around. An iron cauldron hung from a hook inside the fireplace. Inside an enormous glass hutch were a mortar and pestle, minerals, powder-filled jars in interesting shapes and stones grouped according to color, filling every available space. Shelves cluttered with candles and more books than she'd seen outside of a library were arranged in no particular order. She squinted and was able to make out a few titles: Managing the Metaphysical, Spells and Enchantment, Witch Without a Coven, and The Power of Stones. Woolen nubs ready for spinning sat in a basket near a low stool and, of course, Laurie's spinning wheel. She looked around for her loom and remembered she'd seen it in her shop near the wharf. Annie hadn't been here in years and yet nothing had changed.

  Laurie returned with a tumbler of milk and set it down on the coffee table. Her clear, green gaze settled on the little girl. "So, what have we here?"

  "I have no idea," replied Annie. "That's why I came."

  Laurie waited.

  "She won't speak," Annie continued. "I want to know why."

  Laurie transferred her gaze to Annie. "I'm no doctor, Annie. Wouldn't a pediatrician be a better choice?"

  Annie shook her head. "That isn't possible."

  Laurie picked up the cake knife and cut two slices from the loaf. Laying them on a small glass plate, she set them in front of Annie. Then she cut one for herself and poured two cups of strong, black tea into cups so fragile the bone china looked transparent. "Why not?"

  "Because I found her."

  The green eyes gleamed brightly. "I'm not following you."

  "I don't know who she is or where she came from, but I'm keeping her."

  Laurie straightened. "Is that wise?"

  "I've thought about it all week, since the day I found her near Thomas's grave in the cemetery."

  Sipping her tea, Laurie's forehead wrinkled. "The day the sky turned green?"

  "Yes. Is there a connection?"

  "Everything is connected. You know that."

  "I wasn't sure. It's been a long time."

  "That's your fault."

  "I came because I need your help." Annie pressed her fingers against her temple. "I have these headaches." The words, disjointed and frantic, tumbled from her lips. "I found her, naked and alone, near Thomas's grave. She won't talk, but she can hear and she understands what I say. She sleeps all the time, except at night. I have a dream, the same one. It stops before I can make sense of it."

  Laurie Cabot dabbed her lips with the soft cotton napkin. "You had great potential, Annie. We shouldn't be having this conversation."

  She'd expected this. Laurie would help her, but not before taking her pound of flesh. "I'm sorry. Please, help me."

  Laurie stared at the little girl.

  Without a word, the child squirmed out of Annie's grasp, walked to the stairs, sat down on the lowest step and looked up at the cat perched on the landing. Their eyes, child and feline, met in silent communion. All at once, the cat glided down the stairs, stretched her paws, arched her back, purred loudly and curled
up on the child's lap.

  "She's certainly unusual," said Laurie.

  Annie nodded. "Yes."

  "Tell me about your dream."

  Wetting her lips, Annie began. "The fog is thick. It's not possible to know where I am, but it's near the ocean. The coastline is familiar, but the darkness makes it difficult for me to know exactly where."

  "Go on."

  "The voices are unfamiliar. It's as if they're speaking a different language, but I understand the meaning."

  "Who is speaking?"

  "The woman. I can't remember her name."

  "Who else?"

  "A group of people. They're carrying torches. She's afraid."

  "How do you know?"

  "They're threatening her. They want her to come with them."

  "What else?"

  "She refuses. That's all I know."

  Laurie leaned forward. "Think hard, Annie. Is there anything unusual about her?"

  Annie shook her head. "Other than the torches and the clothes, I don't think so." Her eyes settled on Laurie's cauldron. "Wait. She's brewing something." Her eyes lit up. "She's one of us."

  "How can you tell?"

  "She's boiling wormwood and witch hazel. I can smell it. Who else would do such a thing?"

  "Wormwood for safe travel," Laurie murmured, "and witch hazel for protection. What was she up to?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Laurie glared at Annie in exasperation. "This would be much easier if you hadn't strayed from our path, Annie McBride. I can't do everything on my own."

  "I thought it best," Annie defended herself. "Thomas was a devout Congregationalist. I did what I could to keep up." Her voice trailed off.

  "These are the seventies," Laurie replied scornfully. "Women are no longer second class citizens. We're allowed our own beliefs, even if they differ from the men we choose."

  Annie swallowed. "I can't change what I've done."

  Laurie sighed. "Never mind. It can't be helped." She stood and approached the little girl. Kneeling down she lifted the small chin and looked into her eyes for a long minute.

  The child stared back without blinking, without moving.

  Keeping her eyes on the small face, Laurie spoke gently. "It's time, little one. There is no going back." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't be afraid."

  For what seemed an eternity, the two glances held. Finally, as if by mutual agreement, they both turned away.

  Laurie turned back to Annie. "I'll make something up for you. Drink it tonight before you sleep, after you've put her down."

  "What is it?"

  "Something to keep you in the moment. Your dream will play out."

  "What has that to do with anything?" Annie cried. "I want her to be normal. I want her to speak, to cry, to respond. That's why I brought her to you."

  Laurie looked at her incredulously. "Normal? You want her to be normal? Look at her, Annie. You find a naked child in a cemetery, marked by the goddess, a child who doesn't laugh, or cry or speak and you want normal?" Her voice was scathing, contemptuous. "You disappoint me, Annie McBride. After tonight your purpose will be obvious. I only hope you prove yourself worthy."

  * * *

  Early the following morning, Annie woke, disoriented, heart pounding. Oddly enough, she was excited rather than afraid. She glanced at the clock and then at the child beside her. She was sleeping soundly. It was four a.m. Annie leaned close to the small face, gratified to feel the warmth of her breath, to see the slight rise and fall of her chest.

  Careful not to disturb her, Annie slipped out of bed, pulled on her robe and woolen socks and padded downstairs. Automatically, she scooped coffee into the drip, added water and cut a piece of raisin bread from the loaf. Sliding it into the toaster, she waited exactly two minutes before it popped. Working quickly, she buttered the slice, added cream and sugar to her coffee, carried both into the parlor and sat down at the secretary.

  "I'll show you, Laurie Cabot," she muttered. "I'll prove that I'm worthy." Reaching into the small drawer on the left, she pulled out several folded pieces of paper and the bank book for her savings account, opening each and making notes on the pad of paper she always kept on hand. Between sips of coffee and bites of toast, she filled the notepad, occasionally glancing at the clock, prioritizing her tasks for the next thirty days. It was important that she get everything absolutely right. There would be no coming back. Laurie's powder had removed all other options.

  Now, that she knew exactly who and what she was dealing with, Annie's confusion had disappeared. Her mind was clear. She had always done the accounts. Thomas preferred it that way. They had been of like mind in their frugality. Every extra penny had been saved and conservatively invested. But would she have enough without selling the house? It was important to keep the house. Someday, they would come back. Salem was the link to the child's birthright, to Margaret's birthright. Margaret was her name. Annie knew that now. Margaret. Such a serious and proper name for a little girl. Maggie would suit her better. Annie liked the sound of it. She would think of her as Maggie.

  Her list complete, she refilled her coffee cup and sat down near the window. Morning light filtered in through the curtains. Tonight was Halloween. The moon would be full, a yellow harvest-sized moon, bright as daylight, set low in the sky. She picked up the peridote sitting on the ledge, fingered its facets, taking comfort in the color, in the rich warmth pulsing through her hand. How had she come to this place in her life? Was Laurie right? Was everything connected? Thomas's death, the child, the path she'd chosen? Was she nothing more than a fair-weather witch, taking part in the rituals only when they suited her, like those occasional Christians who never prayed until they were desperate or afraid?

  Upstairs a floorboard creaked. Maggie was awake. Annie left her coffee on the end table and started up the stairs. The little girl appeared on the landing. Her cheeks were flushed. Maybe she was too hot all bundled up in the pink zippered sleeper with its bunny feet.

  "Hello, sweetheart," Annie said softly, holding out her arms. Maggie walked into them and Annie picked her up and kissed her cheek. She walked into the bathroom, switched on the light and held her up to the mirror. The reflection showed a large-boned, fair-haired woman and a child with fine features and startling eyes.

  Annie placed her finger on the child's reflection. "This is Margaret," she said deliberately. "Hello, Margaret."

  The bright eyes widened and, for the first time since Annie brought her home, a smile of pure pleasure lit up her face. She opened her mouth and mouthed her name. "Margaret."

  The word was rusty, uttered in the barest whisper with a strange, foreign lilt and a baby's universal mispronunciation of the letter r, but it couldn't be mistaken. She'd spoken and she knew her name.

  Tears of relief streamed down Annie's cheeks. It was going to be all right. They would leave this place. She would make the money last. There was purpose once again. She would prove herself worthy.

  Chapter 3

  Long Beach, California,

  Thirty years later

  "So, Maggie, who and where is he?" Detective Cole Slater was all business from his buzzed haircut and button-down shirt to his rubber-soled Rockports. Even his expression had changed. Five minutes ago he had the department in stitches, mimicking his five-year-old's rendition of her first day at Kindergarten. Now, anyone looking at him would think he'd been called in for an IRS audit.

  Maggie McBride didn't have to ask what caused his sudden metamorphosis. She already knew. He needed her, and his pragmatic, law-enforcement officer's brain hated that he did. Ignoring the subtle undercurrent of sarcasm in his voice, she pointed to the computer screen. "Redondo Avenue and 20th. His name is Daniel Metcalf and he's a registered sex offender who broke parole."

  He scribbled down the address. "You better be right on this one."

  Leaning back in her chair, she looked at him, deliberately saying nothing. The moment stretched out between them.

  Cole looked away first.
"Got it. I'm out of here."

  "You're welcome," she muttered under her breath, but he was already out the door, one ear attached to his phone.

  Sighing, she turned off the computer, stuffed her sweater in her bag and swung it over her shoulder, mentally gearing herself for the gauntlet that would begin the minute she left the safety of Cole's office. Outside she heard voices, but even without hearing them, she knew who they were.

  Penny Sloane and Sean Mitchell, undercover vice detectives, would be hunched over Sloane's desk, good-naturedly arguing over whose turn it was to spring for take-out. Roman Nunez, another officer was on the phone and Casey Davenport, his partner, sat in her cubicle writing a report. The room hummed with sound and camaraderie. Roman ended his conversation. "That's it for me," Maggie heard him say. "I'm going for some food. Can I get anybody anything?"

  "Depends on where you're going," Casey answered.

  "Mario's."

  Penny Sloane looked up. "Count me in. I'll go with you." She nudged Mitchell. "I'll bring you back a pizza."

  Mitch groaned. "It's the third night this week I've had Italian."

  Penny laughed. "Deal with it."

  Maggie waited until they'd finished their friendly banter before leaving the protective walls of Cole's office. If she moved quickly enough, she might make it out the door to the elevator before anyone noticed. Keeping her eyes on her goal, the front door of the Long Beach Police Department, South Division, she walked through the room that had suddenly gone silent. Her heart pounded. Why was it still so difficult? Why did she even care? She'd been through this a thousand times. She smiled stiffly, speaking to no one in particular. "Goodbye."

  "Bye, Maggie," Casey said, avoiding eye contact. "Have a good evening."