Witch Catcher (2 page)

"It's almost time for dinner, and I can't find anything," he said.

Tink jumped up on the counter and accidentally knocked a pile of lids to the floor. Dad swatted at him in annoyance. "Get down!"

Giving Dad a disdainful look, the cat ignored him. His fears forgotten. Tink had definitely made himself at home. Tail waving, he prowled the counter, weaving his way through the clutter, sniffing this, sniffing that, looking in vain for supper.

"Maybe we should just go out for pizza," Dad muttered.

"Where would we get it?" I asked. "Mingo's the nearest town, and it's at least twenty-five miles away."

Dad sighed. "We're not in the suburbs anymore, are we? No mall, no fast-food places, no pizza delivery. In other words, if we want pizza, we'll have to make it ourselves." He rummaged through a carton of groceries and came up with a package of pizza mix.

"Yuck." I scowled at the grinning chef on the front of the box. "Not
that
stuff, Dad."

"You can always make yourself a peanut butter sandwich," he said cheerfully.

While I fed Tink, Dad busied himself with the pizza. Even though he was a pretty good cook, I didn't have much hope for the sticky white dough he was smothering with canned tomato sauce. Tink showed no interest in it. Usually he preferred our food to his, but tonight he seemed perfectly happy with his Kitty Delight chopped sardines.

When the pizza was ready, Dad insisted we eat in the dining room—much more special, he said, than the kitchen, especially for our first meal in Great-Uncle Thaddeus's house. The two of us sat at one end of a table that must have been at least twelve feet long. To my surprise, the pizza smalled almost as good as the real thing and tasted better than I'd expected—or maybe I was just too hungry to be picky.

After we'd finished eating, we lingered at the table. Here in the mountains, the heat faded with the setting sun. To drive off the evening chill, Dad had gotten a small fire going in the hearth, and I'd lit dozens of candles, but the room was far from cozy. It was too big, for one thing, high-ceilinged and filled with shadows. Long velvet drapes hid the windows, and dark oil paintings in ornate frames tilted out from the walls. Great-Uncle Thaddeus seemed to have had a taste for desolate landscapes, gloomy still lifes, and portraits of pale, frowning people who no doubt disapproved of pizza.

Tink brushed against my legs, purring like a motor running at full speed. It comforted me to know he was there, so close, so warm and soft.

"Is Great-Uncle Thaddeus in any of those pictures?" I asked.

Dad scanned the portraits. "There's the jolly old soul." He pointed at a painting of a white-haired man with a beard. Uncle Thaddeus's face was long and thin, his cheeks were pale, and he had no twinkle in his eye. His expression was decidedly unfriendly.

"A self-portrait, I think," Dad said. "He was a good painter."

"I guess that's where you got your talent." I tilted my head and studied the painting. "He looks exactly like you described him. I'd be scared of him, too."

Dad laughed. "Even in a painting, he has a certain commanding presence."

"I wouldn't want that picture hanging on my bedroom wall," I said. "I'd never get any sleep with Wm staring down at me."

"Well, no matter what the old boy was like or how he'd feel about us living here," Dad said, "I salute him for giving me the opportunity to become a man of leisure."

Raising his coffee cup, Dad got to his feet. "To Great-Uncle Thaddeus, who unwittingly saved me from twenty more years of teaching art to Philistines."

"A toast, a toast!" I raised my water glass. "Hip, hip, hooray for Great-Uncle Thaddeus, the king of Mostyn Castle!"

"Hear, hear." Dad's voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

Swallowing the last of his coffee, he began gathering our plates. "Let's clean up, Jen. It's been a long day for both of us."

After we'd cleared the table and washed the dishes, I picked up Tink. "Are you going to bed now?" I asked Dad.

"I think I'll read for a while first," he said. "You run along. I'll be up soon."

Taking Tink with me, I climbed the long flight of steps to the second floor and walked down the hall to my room.

Before I got into bed, I looked out the window at the tower. In the moonlight it looked even more mysterious. "What do you suppose Great-Uncle Thaddeus did up there all night long?" I whispered to Tink.

He looked at me, amber eyes glowing, and touched my face gently with his paw.

"You're a cat," I reminded him. "You
must
be curious."

Tink blinked. Leaping from my arms, he ran to the bed and jumped on the pillow, his favorite sleeping place. Looking at me pointedly, he meowed loudly. It was time for bed. If I didn't get under those covers soon, he'd start fussing at me.

I lingered a moment at the window. The leaves in the big oak near the house stirred and rustled. The moon shone down on fields and woods, casting the tower's long black shadow toward the house. The stars seemed thicker and brighter, closer somehow without streetlights and neon signs and headlights.

Tink mewed several times, reminding me again it was time for bed. The breeze coming through the window was cool, and I was glad to snuggle under the covers with my cat close by.

The strange night noises of my new home kept me awake—a creak here, a creak there, an odd
tap, tap, tap,
the rush of water in the drains. I turned this way and that—stomach, right side, left side, back, legs curled up, legs out straight. But no matter what position I took, I couldn't relax.

Large, dark furniture, carved with vines and animal heads, crowded around me on clawed feet. It was like trying to sleep in an enchanted forest full of strange beasts. For all I knew, I'd wake in the morning and find myself far from everything I knew and loved, alone and afraid.

Finally, I got out of bed and went looking for Dad. I needed some comforting. Tink followed me, probably hoping it was time for breakfast.

I was halfway down the steps when I heard Dad say, "I can't wait to introduce you to Jen. She's a lovely girl, Moura, sweet and quiet, a little shy. Very bright."

I stopped and gripped the railing. A cold breeze blew up the stairs, but I didn't move. Dad was talking on the phone, telling a stranger about me. "She still misses her mother," he said. "It was hard for her to leave our old house, but I think the change will do her good. Maybe she'll be happier here."

He paused to give "Moura" a turn to speak and then said, "I do my best, but Jen's almost thirteen. She needs mothering, a woman to talk to her about things."

I wanted to run down the steps and yank the phone out of Dad's hand. He had no right to tell a stranger how I felt or what I needed. It was none of her business. But, angry as I was, I didn't want Dad to know I'd been eavesdropping.

"Come tomorrow afternoon," Dad said. "I'd love to give you a complete tour of the house and its furnishings. You're bound to find something perfect for your shop."

Another pause, and then Dad said, "Don't worry about a thing, Moura. Jen will absolutely adore you."

Before Dad hung up, I crept back to bed. Who was this Moura? How had my father met her? And why had he said I'd adore her? I wouldn't—I was sure of it. And I certainly wasn't going to talk to her in some mother-daughter way. Dad was the only person I needed.

Tink snuggled closer, butting his head against me, demanding to be petted. "Moura," I whispered. "I don't even like her name."

Tink rubbed his face against mine and purred even louder. That meant he agreed. He didn't like Moura, either.

I fell asleep hoping I could keep Dad away from this Moura person.

A
T BREAKFAST
, D
AD
was so distracted he poured orange juice on his cereal. Under different circumstances, I would have laughed and teased him, but I was still angry about what I'd overheard him tell the mysterious Moura.

"That was dumb," I muttered.

Dad laughed. "To tell you the truth, I'm a little flustered," he said. "When I came to town last month to settle Uncle Thaddeus's estate, the lawyer suggested I hire an antique dealer to assess my uncle's belongings—the furniture, the art, the bric-a-brac he once feared I'd break. He recommended a woman named Moura Winters. She runs the Dark Side of the Moon, a pricey little shop in Mingo. She's coming at one to look at the place."

I toyed with my cereal, pushing the flakes this way and that. "Were you talking to her last night?"

"Why, yes," he began, "but how—"

I shoved my cereal bowl aside, no longer hungry. "Why did you tell her about me? It's none of her business how I feel."

Dad stared at me, surprised. "Were you eavesdropping, Jen?"

"No. I was coming downstairs because I couldn't sleep, and I heard you telling some stranger that I missed my mother, that I was lonely, that I needed a woman to talk to. You made me sound absolutely pitiful, some sad girl with no one to talk to."

Dad ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to make you sound pitiful. It's just that Moura and I ... we ... she and I ... well, we—"

"You and Moura what?" I gripped the edge of the table. "How long have you known her, anyway?"

"The lawyer I mentioned before introduced us," he said. "Whenever I came down to work on the house, I took Moura to dinner, a movie.... She's very nice, Jen. A good businesswoman, too. She knows her antiques. You'll like her, I'm sure of it. Just give her—"

I didn't wait for him to finish. With Tink bounding ahead, I ran upstairs to my room and slammed the door. Now I understood the many trips Dad had made to Great-Uncle Thaddeus's house before we moved. A plumber to see. An electrician, a carpenter, a lawyer. While I'd spent weekend after boring weekend with a babysitter, Dad had been spending time in Mingo with Moura.

When Dad knocked on my door, I told him to go away. I'd stay in my room all day if I felt like it. He was a traitor, a cheat, a liar.

"For heaven's sake," Dad protested. "Why shouldn't Moura and I—"

"Leave me alone," I said. "I don't want to hear that name again!"

After a while, Dad gave up and went downstairs. I waited a few minutes, maybe ten, maybe fifteen, and then tiptoed to his room. I found the key to the tower, neatly labeled, in the top drawer of his bureau. If I hadn't been so angry with him, I probably would have felt guilty about disobeying him, but I dropped the key into the pocket of my shorts with only a twinge of conscience.

I crept downstairs and peeked into the kitchen. Dad was lying on the floor, his head under the sink, trying to repair a leaking pipe he'd discovered.

With Tink at my heels, I slipped out the front door, circled around the house to the rear, and ran down the hill to the tower. Hidden behind the screen of overgrown bushes, I shoved the key into the padlock and turned it. It took all my strength, but at last the lock moved, and I pushed the heavy door open.

Tink and I hesitated on the threshold. The air was hot and still and thick with dust. It smelled of mold, mouse droppings, pigeon poop, and other nose-wrinkling, indefinable things. Tink scooted up the winding wooden staircase, and I followed slowly, avoiding the bones of a bird scattered on the stairs, testing each step to see if it was rotten. The wood seemed sound to me. Dad must have exaggerated to discourage me from what I was doing now.

At the top, the stairs opened into a big round room. Dim light shone through the ivy covering the small windows, giving the room a greenish tint, almost as if it were under water. A pair of pigeons, heads tucked under their wings, slept on the rafters. Mice scurried through stacks of paper and crooked piles of old books. I saw a chair here, a table there, busts of ancient Greeks and Romans, trunks and boxes, all coated with dirt and cobwebs.

I opened a few of the books, hoping to find a good story, but the mildewed pages were covered with odd symbols and marks. Runes, I thought, like the ones carved on the tower's door.

Tossing the unreadable books aside, I spied an easel standing by one of the small leaf-choked windows. A palette of dried oils sat on a table, its colors so caked with dust that it was impossible to tell what they'd once been. On the easel was a painting of a girl's face partly hidden by shadows. Her strange slanted eyes stared into mine, half afraid, half curious. Moonlight shone through the foliage and tinted her pale skin green. She was so real, I almost expected her to move or speak.

But what she'd say, I couldn't guess. She didn't look quite human.

While Tink explored the room, I looked through a stack of paintings leaning against the easel. The same girl's face stared out from two of them. In one especially eerie painting, she seemed to be trapped behind a glass wall, pressing her hands against it, as if she were desperate to escape. I had a feeling Great-Uncle Thaddeus had been trying to paint something very real to him but he hadn't gotten it right somehow.

The other paintings were of strange moonlit forests, dark lakes, rushing rivers, caverns. In some, menacing figures peered from shadowy places. They were barely visible, and as inhuman as the girl.

I let the canvases fall back, raising a cloud of dust that made me sneeze.

Still hoping to discover a gold chalice, a ruby diadem, or, at the very least, a pile of silver coins, I took another look around the room. That's when I saw the small glass globe. Revolving slowly in the lazy summer air, it hung at the end of a tarnished silver chain suspended from a hook high above my head. Like everything else in the tower, it was filthy, but under the dirt, I was able to make out a faint spiral pattern of colors. Cleaned up, it would look pretty hanging in my bedroom window.

While Tink watched, I climbed on top of a table and reached for the globe. But, stretch as tall as I could, it was still beyond my grasp. I gathered an armload of the thickest books I could find, piled them on the table, and climbed on top. Just as my fingers brushed the globe, the books slid out from under me, and I almost fell. Startled by the commotion, mice scurried about madly and the pigeons flew out a broken window, their wings clapping like sheets of metal.