Page 36 of The Witch's Orchard
They all take off and I watch them go before I close the door. Back in the cabin, I make coffee and dig into background checks. What I expected is pretty much what I get. Drunk and disorderlies for Tommy Hoyle. I look up his cousins, Dwight and Elaine Hoyle. They both have records—misdemeanors for possession and DUIs—but nothing in the last year. I find their last known address and then look at the street view online. It’s a big apartment complex with a ton of tiny balconies, cheek by jowl, overlooking a parking lot.
I shift my focus to the local constabulary. There’s a long record of service in the department for Sheriff Cole Jacobs. And there’s AJ Barnes, former running back for Appalachian State, a deputy for the last two years with an Instagram account showing off food from his mom and dad’s barbecues, sun-dappled shots of him working on a cabin up in the woods, him in a tux at his sister’s wedding.
I find some old pictures from an archived Savannah society magazine of Deena as a fresh-faced debutante. I don’t find much about Brother Bob Ziegler. Just a lot of old newsletters from First Baptist, usually penned by Mrs. Ziegler.
I look up Susan McKinney but, while I find a few other women with her name, I can’t find anything about the woman who’d startled me in the woods during my run. I remind myself that not everyone has an online presence and that for older people in this region that’s probably even more accurate.
I look back and forth between photos of all these people and photos of the applehead dolls from Max’s scrapbook. I remember my granny sitting on the porch and peeling an apple. I remember being little, watching the long spiral of skin falling away from the pale flesh, dropping to the floor with a dull plop. I remember sitting there into the night, my mom working late, my dad off doing God-knows-what. And my granny telling me to come on in, no use waiting up; they weren’t coming to get me.
I look back at the little shriveled faces of the black-eyed dolls and think of the witch who turned her daughters into a bluebird and a robin so they might sing for her forevermore.
I’m still lost in thought when my phone rings, and I answer.
“How’s the hoedown?” Leo asks. His voice is like velvet, wrapping around me. Instantly, I feel myself relax.
“Just getting started. You know what an applehead doll is?”
“Nope. Why don’t you enlighten me.”
“Don’t you have other things to do? Cleaning guns or counting money or doing rounds through your secret under-a-volcano base?”
Leo laughs, and I smile at the sound.
I update him on the case.
“It’s unlikely they’re still there,” Leo says. “After ten years?”
“I know.” I look again at the photos of the dolls, shake my head. “Most likely, someone took them away and they’re long gone. Or they were murdered, and their bodies are buried somewhere in these hills.”
“That sounds about right. How’s the law down there? They giving you much trouble?”
“You know me.”
“I know you like to stir up shit. Things get thick, I’m always a phone call away.”
“I thought you were wheels up tomorrow. Won’t you be in Singapore or Dubai or somewhere?”
“I’m always a phone call away, Annie.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling in spite of myself.
We hang up and I eat some of what’s in the fridge while I jot down a few more notes, take a shower, watch reruns ofAndy Griffithon the little TV in the bedroom.
I fall asleep to the heavy drumbeat of Barney Fife’s theme song and an under-chorus of screaming crows in my ears.
The next morning I’m awake just before dawn. I sit up, put my shoes on, splash water on my face, slip into my jacket. I hesitate before I’m all the way out the door, go back inside and tuck my holster and gun against the back of my leggings. It’s not a great feeling to run with a gun, but it’s not like I didn’t do it for years—with a much heavier gun—before I veered off my old path and onto this one. I leave the cabin and make sure it’s locked. I jog the length of the gravel road, head down by the gorge, across the bridge, up the other side.
I’m working up a good sweat as I close in on the ring of boulders.
And then I stop.
There’s more than one crow today. There’s a swarm. It’s a dense, wavering cloud of black feathers and a screaming, echoing chorus of hoarse cries. They’re circling a dead animal. Fighting over it. Laughing and crying and shrieking at each other.
I almost turn and jog away. Seeing a deer being dismantled isn’t my idea of a good morning.
But it’s the color. A redder red than blood and, attached to it, an intricate, snow white froth of lace.
Shivers run up my spine, catch in my throat.
