The Witchfinder Wars (10 page)

Thinking of the bully gave me a quick flash
of his victim. Anya? Yeah, that sounded right. I could see her as
clearly as if she stood right in front of me: red hair in a shaggy
ponytail, tendrils escaping from its rubber band to fall around her
pale face. Her eyes, like little chips of emerald, huge and full of
fear.

Or was it fear? She sure hadn't seemed to be
afraid of Jordan or his gang, even though he alone had to outweigh
her by a good sixty or seventy pounds. Not even considering his
pack.

But Anya, even though she must have known
she wouldn't stand a gnat's chance, had stood up to them all. Heck,
she even called Jordan a jerk.

From nowhere, the thought came:
Am I that
brave as I
face
everything coming at me?
All the changes I can almost hear, like a herd of stampeding
mustangs—or a race car—rushing toward me from my future?

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass
of my window, closed my eyes, and gave myself permission to think
about Dad.

Spenser Hopkins was—had been—a tall guy,
taller than me though Grand said I'd probably catch up with him by
the time I got into my twenties. He'd had hair so pale blonde it
looked white in some lights, but his eyes were dark blue, almost
black in some lights. He loved my mother and books and good food
and fast cars and Grand and me and the twins, but he worked so hard
I don't know how much time he was able to spend
on any of these loves
.

I tried counting up in my head the number of
occasions I could remember being alone with Dad and came up with a
big fat three, one of which was the time I'd broken my left wrist
in two places when I fell off my skateboard. He came to the
hospital—we were in Seattle then—and brought me the new laptop I'd
been wanting. I remembered we didn't have much to say to each
other—I was eager to check out my new computer, even one-handed,
and he, I'm sure, had to get back to work.

But one thing I remembered very clearly. Dad
got up to leave, leaned over the hospital bed and ruffled up my
hair.

"I love you, son. You know that, right?"

I felt pretty uncomfortable at the question.
I nodded, careful not to meet his eyes.

"Good. You're going to have some pretty hard
choices to make in your life, Tommy, choices you can't even begin
to imagine right now. But I'll try to always be here for you, son,
and I'll help you all I can. That's a promise. Remember that,
okay?"

I remembered it then, and I still remembered
it.

But he'd been wrong. He wasn't here, and he
couldn't help me now.

I opened my eyes. The glass was fogged from
my breath. It turned the lights in the street below into tiny suns
glowing in the darkness.

A light came on below me. I could see the
bright yellow rectangle, its edges crisp and clear, it cast on the
grass below.

Grand was having trouble sleeping too.

I raised my window and the blurred suns
became streetlights again. They were starting to dim as the faint
pink in the sky turned brighter. I watched as they blinked out and
houselights began to come on in the little town spread out in the
valley below. Early as it was, I could see lots of lights in the
old brick mill by the river, which cut Manning in half. WFG had
remodeled the abandoned mill, turning it into a high-tech clinic
and research facility.

WFG.

Witch Finder General?

Well, of course that's what the company
started out being called, but that was back in the seventeenth
century! Surely nothing related to, well, could witches have
anything to do with a modern company?

Grand must be kidding.

Right?

Well, I'd find out soon enough. Uncle Clay
was supposed to arrive sometime today.

He was going to tell me all about it, about
WFG and my dad's job and what was expected from me.

I got up and almost fell down again. My leg
had gone to sleep. I hopped and stumbled forward, bumping into the
book bag I'd dropped at the foot of my bed yesterday and
forgotten.

It fell over and my trig book tumbled out
and skittered across the pine floor, to end up under a dresser
across the room.

I had a sudden memory of yesterday morning.
Dreading the first day of school. New place, new people. Taking
trig, taking chemistry. It had seemed, then, liked the worst
possible kind of day.

Now I knew better. I would have given
anything to have yesterday morning, and yesterday morning's
problems, back again.

***

I took a shower and pulled on jeans and a
tee. I almost hoped to see the image in the fogged bathroom mirror
again, but there was nothing behind me but wet towels draped over
the john.

I could tell it was a strange day when I
stepped into the hallway outside my room. Nothing but silence from
my sisters' room instead of the usual arguments and yells and
whines.

Well, I thought, no time like the present to
become the overbearing, protective, domineering big brother I was
apparently destined to become. I knocked on their door.

"Jos? Jax? You guys ready for
breakfast?"

Silence.

Remembering former earth shattering
explosions when I'd entered their room without permission, I opened
the door, slow and careful.

Jos was sitting on her bed, crying. Jax was
next to her, one arm around Jos's shoulders, offering a tissue with
the other hand.

I went in, knelt down in front of them and
gathered them both into an awkward hug.

We went through half a box of tissues
between us before we went downstairs.

***

"Your Uncle Clay's plane should be arriving
around noon," Grand said as she poured cream into her coffee. "I'm
going to keep you all home with me today. I hope you don't
mind."

Normally, this would have been the signal
for the twins to dance around the breakfast room table, whooping
and pumping their hands in the air. Today, Jos didn't even look up;
she just kept pushing strawberries around in her bowl of cereal.
Jax sniffed but didn't say a word.

I looked at the poached eggs congealing on
my plate.

"Tommy?"

I looked up at Grand. "Yes, ma'am?"

Grand was sipping her coffee. "I didn't say
anything, honey."

I looked at the girls, but they both shook
their head in that funny way they sometimes did, in perfect unison
like they were one person controlling two bodies.

I shrugged and went back to my eggs. They
looked even worse than before.

"It's gonna be okay."

This time I realized the voice I was hearing
didn't belong to anyone in the room with me, or anyone I knew,
even.

Or did it?

Oh, great. Just great. I'm hearing things
now.

I looked out the tall French doors across
the table from me, the ones opening to the back patio with dozens
of huge clay pots full of flowers. I hoped Jordan the Jerk had been
forced to fill them all by hand, with really fresh cow manure and
no gloves. The thought almost made me grin.

Then I saw something. A misty figure of a
girl standing on the other side of the glass—or maybe she was part
of the glass 'cause I could see right through her.

No, that's not right. She wasn't like the
invisible woman or something; she was clearly there and just as
clearly Anya, the girl Jordan and his goons had been hassling
yesterday.

But the image was just as clearly not her,
could not have been Anya. The red-haired girl dressed in a faded
brown tee and jeans was like something painted with a transparent
paint, if it makes any sense. No, she was more like something on a
stained glass window; that was it. Colors were there but I could
see right through her.

She had the saddest look on her face.

"Tommy, what's so interesting out in the
garden?"

Grand's voice shattered the Anya-image like
it really had been made of glass. But it didn't disappear all at
once; the face, with a sad little smile, lingered for a minute.

Like the Cheshire Cat.

Like a blessing.

Now that was weird. No sleep can really do
some truly strange stuff, huh?

"I, uh, saw a cat or something," I said,
then went back to trying to defeat those damned eggs.

***

None of us seemed to know what to do after
breakfast. I wandered up to my room, retrieved my trig book and
moved all the books to a nice neat pile on my desk. I wondered when
I'd be back in school and I dreaded all the fake sympathy from
people I didn't know.

A couple of times I glanced out my window,
just to check if theghost girl might have come back, but all I saw
were vans delivering flowers and cars with people getting out,
their hands full of casserole dishes and plates covered with
foil.

I went down to Grand's room. She was sitting
at her desk.

"What's with all the people delivering
food?" I demanded.

"It's a southern thing," she said. "You
always take food to a house where...someone has died."

"But we have a chef," I waved my arms around
like it was Grand's fault these strangers were coming to our
house.

"Doesn't matter. It's what we—what
southerners do, like eating turnip greens and..." her voice trailed
off.

"Well, that's just great. What are we going
to do—no, what is Brent going to do with a dozen casseroles?"

"Oh, they'll come in handy. It's a
thoughtful thing, Tommy, so people who have had a loss won't have
to think about cooking."

The phone rang and Grand answered it. Her
voice sounded funny, kind of cold and distant.

"All right. Oh, that's nice. We'll be
expecting you." She hung up. "Your Uncle Clay is ahead of schedule.
I've got to send Ray out now to the airport to get them."

She picked up the house phone and gave Brent
the information to pass on to Ray.

"Them?" I asked.

"Your cousin Kinsey is with him. Their plane
arrives at eleven. You'd better go get dressed now."

I looked down at my jeans and tee. "I am
dressed," I said, and if I'd had hackles, or knew what they were,
they would have risen. "What's wrong with what I've got on?"

Even to myself, I sounded like the twins on
one of their bad days, which would be, like, every day, come to
think of it.

"Don't be difficult, dear, not today. I
can't stand it, not from you."

Well, of course, her tone deflated my case
of hackles at once.

"Okay, what do you want me to put on? And
Grand, please don't say a suit."

"No, honey," she said, and I was glad to see
what could almost be called a smile on her face—a little one, sure,
but still. I was glad for what I could get. "A nice shirt and some
slacks, please. For me?"

It wasn't for her, I knew. It was for Uncle
Clay, who I was beginning to dislike, but not for any reason I
could put a finger on.

I was also beginning to suspect Grand didn't
like her second-born son very much either.

I stomped upstairs, yanked off my jeans and
tee, and put on a blue shirt and khakis. I decided my black
sneakers would stay, but I did run a comb through my hair. That's
usually useless, what with the cowlicks and all, but again, it
would have to do.

I heard the limo leaving as I pulled my door
closed behind me.

***

Grand had been after the twins too. They
were both in dresses, Jos in pale pink, Jax a darker shade, rose or
something. We were all four seated in what Grand insisted on
calling the parlor—she'd gotten all Scarlett O'Hara on us. I
decided it must have something to do with her being back in the
south again. Of all the places we've lived since, well, since I
could remember, none of them had been in any of the southern
states.

And as soon as we moved to one, Dad—no.
Don't go there.

So. We all sat like we were in a dentist's
waiting room, careful not to catch each other's eye. The impression
was so strong I expected to see a stack of outdated magazines piled
on the table behind the sofa.

Once or twice, I caught myself looking out
the big bay window—not to check if my uncle and cousin had arrived,
but afraid—or was I hoping?—to see that translucent image of
Anya.

Jordan and his pack had called her a witch.
Crazy talk.

Or was it? I would have thought so
yesterday—heck, I
had
thought so yesterday—but after last
night and this morning, I wasn't so sure anymore.

Witches in the twenty-first century? Pointy
hats and broomsticks versus the Internet and virtual reality? No
way.

Then I remembered an image from one of my
dreams: the doll with red hair almost covered by a pointy black
hat.

"There's the car," Grand said.

I jumped about three feet and tried to cover
it up by breaking into a fit of coughing.

"You all right, honey?" Grand Scarlett
asked.

"Yes, ma'am. All these flowers, I
guess."

And she couldn't argue with me there. The
whole house had morphed into a flower shop and more kept arriving.
What with the flowers and the casseroles, we'd probably all have to
sleep in the garage. Luckily, it was huge. And it seemed like the
best place for Uncle Clay.

The doorbell rang. We heard Sally, one of
our maids, opening the front door; she must have been out in the
big hallway dusting or whatever.

A deep voice asked, "Where's Mrs. Hopkins?"
in a slow but abrupt tone; as if he was ordering a hamburger in a
drive-through and didn't have much time or much trust in the
intellect of the check-out girl.

Sally murmured something and we heard people
coming toward the parlor; sounded like a dozen at least. The door
opened.

My dad stood there.

My heart stopped for an instant and this
horrible hope filled me up like I was an empty vessel pumped full
to overflowing with bitter salt water.