Page 25 of Witch
“I can accept killing an innocent to save others,” he claimed. He moved to the lever on the wall of the cottage and lifted the beam holding the girl in the air. As he moved, her hanging body moved with him. Walking toward the massive pot, she screamed and screamed, her throat raw from having screamed when he first took her.
“Please!” she cried.
“Shut up, witch!”
The girl knew her fate. This madman would prove her innocence by killing her. There was no way out. Instead, she began reciting the Lord’s prayer.
“Shut up! Stop right this minute!” he cried. But she refused. If she were going to die, she would die with God’s name on her lips.
Unable to listen to it any longer, he released the lever, and the girl splashed in the scalding oil below.
Hopkins sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, his body shaking violently from the nightmare. With a quivering hand, he reached for the water beside his bed and took several sips.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had the dream. He knew that it was his ancestor. He knew that he’d killed the young German girl. There was record of it. She was one of his last. When the village found out that she’d been taken, raped, tortured, and killed with boiling oil, they hunted him.
Lucky for his ancestor, he was able to escape to England, but his troubles were only starting. People didn’t believe in witches much any longer, and now he was the one being hunted.
Marcus leaned back on the cheap mattress, frowning at the state of his living conditions. If only he were given the freedoms that his ancestor had when it came to hunting down these evil women.
Instead, he was resigned to using attempts at convincing the authorities, which was like talking to brick walls. So, he’d devised his own methods of handling things. Which reminded him of something he needed to do.
Quickly dressing, he stepped out of the cheap motel room and frowned at what he saw. Whores. A half dozen of them, at least, were walking the breezeway of the motel, men on their arms, accepting cash for their services.
“Whores,” he muttered.
“Try it, honey, you might like it,” said one of the women standing in the doorway beside his own.
“I’d rather be boiled in oil,” he said.
She only laughed as he got into his rental car and drove off. It took nearly an hour to get to the small, abandoned fishing shack near Barataria, Louisiana. The floor was barely holding on, so he knew that he had to be careful where he stepped.
The young woman was hanging from a cracking rafter, her t-shirt clinging to her sweaty body. Grabbing the stick leaning against the wall, he poked her abdomen several times, then finally got a response with a grunt.
“You’re still alive. I’m impressed at your skills, witch.”
“I’ve told you. I’m not a witch!” she said, glaring at the strange man. “I’m a professor of medieval history. I have two PhDs for goodness sake!”
“You are a witch, and you convince your students that witches were not real. Don’t worry. Your pain will soon end. By the time I return, the snakes, rats, and gators will find you and determine your guilt or innocence.”
“You’re mad. Positively bonkers,” she said, shaking her head. “Step into the light. At least have the courage to show your face.”
He thought about it for a moment, then decided it was too risky. What if she escaped? What if she actually found a way out?
“I knew you were a witch the minute I saw that book in the bookstore. You were so easy to find, hiding in plain sight.”
“I was easy to find because I wasn’t hiding, you moron!” she yelled.
“I’ll bet you’re related to those Robicheaux people,” he seethed. That only made her laugh.
“No. If I were, you’d already be dead.”
With nothing clever to say, he turned, slamming the shack door, almost praying it would collapse. Instead, it still stood hovering above the swamp. Back in his car, he took several deep breaths, realizing how nervous the woman had made him.
With at least five more hours of darkness, he returned to his pathetic little room, showered, and lay back in the wretched little bed. If luck were on his side, he’d get a few hours of sleep and return to find his witch dead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Gaspar! Gaspar! I need your help,” yelled Adele, running toward him. He gripped his little sister’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length.
