The Witch of Tin Mountain(80)

TWENTY-NINE

GRACELYNN





1931




I wipe the sleep from my eyes and blink at the wan light coming through the tiny window above me. It ain’t yet dawn, but the moon is a waxing crescent, casting everything in the jail cell in an eerie gray pallor. I sit up, my head throbbing from hunger and dehydration.

If I’ve counted the days right, it’s the morning of my trial.

Yesterday afternoon, I overheard Sheriff Murphy talking in hushed tones to his deputies. They ain’t got permission from any prosecuting attorney to try me for any sort of crime. There’s been no hearing. No formal charges. It’s because they ain’t got proof, just circumstantial evidence. But they’re gonna do it anyway—in a kangaroo court of their own making, with Bellflower as magistrate.

Everything to this point has been set up by Bellflower. The deaths after his false healings. The fire. Harlan. All arranged to turn the townsfolk against me. He wants to make me desperate, so I’ll cave to his will. Become his vessel—whatever that means.

I’m still pondering things as I rise and pace my cell like a cat in a cage, running my hand along the bars. I’ve tried and tested them all, focusing my will. I try again, clenching one of the bars until my palm stings and burns. Iron.

As dawn pinks through the window, I sit and stand, stretch and flex muscles that are so tight and dry they might snap. In the distance I can hear the steady rhythm of hammers. I wonder if they’re building a gallows for me. Or a pyre. Will there be a jeering crowd, calling for my death, like there was for Anneliese? Will the whole town turn out to see me hang or burn?

I palm Abby’s shank, rolling it back and forth in my fingers.

Sheriff Murphy’s keys rattle in the lock. As I hide the shank inside my brassiere, he comes in, dressed in a freshly pressed uniform. He’s carrying a tray of food, and my mouth waters at the smell.

“I brought you a proper breakfast, Miss Doherty. You’ll need it for what’s to come.”

I rush to the bars like an eager dog. He slides the tray through the opening beneath the bars, then hands a steaming mug of coffee through to me. I fight the urge to fling the hot liquid in his face. But I ain’t strong enough to try anything foolish right now. Besides, I could use the coffee for my headache.

I wolf down the food. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. Scrambled eggs with cheese mixed in. Bacon. A side of buttered grits with gravy. I gulp the coffee and it scalds my tongue and throat, but I don’t care one bit. I feel almost human again.

After I’ve finished, I pick my teeth with my fingernail and push the empty tray back to the other side of the cell. When the sheriff shuffles over to collect it, I ask for more coffee, and he shakes his head. “Trial starts in half an hour.”

“Ain’t I gonna get to talk to a lawyer before I go? The accused have a right to representation.”

“It ain’t that kind of trial, girl, and you know that. Al Northrup wants justice for his son, and he means to get it however he can.” Sheriff Murphy pulls the brim of his hat down over his forehead. “If I were you, I’d start prayin’ now.”

Deputy Adams and Hosea Ray come in a few minutes later and haul me out of the piss-scented cell. They push me outside, where the brightness of the morning sun blazes into my eyes, blinding me and washing the dirt road in purple and red spots.

“Climb up in the back there,” Murphy says, motioning to Hosea’s truck.

I put a knee on the tailgate of the Ford and crawl up. Jimmy Adams follows and sits down next to me on one of the hay bales stacked along the side. The scent of chicken feed and sweat rolls off him. He wraps an arm around my hip, snugging me up to him. “Jus’ in case you think about tryin’ anything funny,” he says, and laughs. He’s breathing heavy as his fingers start kneading my thigh through the filthy fabric, hard enough to bruise. I’m glad I can’t hear people’s thoughts anymore. I’d hate to hear the smutty thoughts he’s likely thinking.

When the truck starts moving with a lurch, my guts tumble. I ate too much, too fast, after not having food for days. I lean over and vomit, my breakfast landing on Jimmy Adams’s polished shoes and splashing on the bed of the truck.

“Dammit, girl, why’d you up and do that for?”

I wipe my mouth on my shoulder and raise my head. He’s bent at the waist, fumbling with his handkerchief and cussing under his breath. The sausage-pink sliver of flesh above his collar is vulnerably soft. I could stab him with the shank and launch myself over the edge of the truck bed, hit the ground with a roll, and make a run for it before Hosea could throw the truck outta gear.

I could. Right now. If my hands were free.

I been too afraid to try anything since they came to arrest me—too afraid I’d make things worse for myself.

At this point, I figure I’ve got nothing to lose.

While Jimmy Adams mutters to himself and wipes my sick off his shoes, I pull in a deep breath and close my eyes. The tree scar on my back warms, radiating threads of heat all through my bones. I imagine the handcuffs unclasping. Falling free.

I will it so hard, I feel it happening.

A stunned gasp escapes my lips. I wriggle my fingers and move my wrists apart. They’re no longer fettered. Somehow, someway, my hands are free.

But I’m smart enough to play like they’re not. I squelch my sense of wonder and steady my breathing, as much as I can. I’m trembling all over. Adams looks at me, his expression of irritated disgust slowly morphing into something else. Fear.