The Witch of Tin Mountain(85)

“Nadine, I’m real sorry about your loss. But I didn’t have nothin’ to do with Danny’s sickness or death. Or any of the other things you just talked about. Me and Granny have always been good to you. You know that.” I jerk my chin toward Bellflower. “This man’s got y’all fooled. If Satan’s in this so-called courtroom, he’s working through Bellflower. Or whatever his real name is.”

A roar goes up from the townsfolk, bouncing off the high ceiling of the church. Bellflower frowns at me and stalks back behind the pulpit, banging the gavel. “The accused will not speak unless called upon to do so.”

Sheriff Murphy grabs me by the arm and pulls me back down into my seat. “Girl, if you don’t behave and hush your mouth, I’ll put a gag on you and tie you to this chair.”

“So that’s the way it is, huh?” I hiss. “They can say whatever they want about me, but I can’t defend myself? You’re a fair-minded man, Sheriff. Always been a good man, by my reckoning. I delivered every one of your young ’uns and every one of ’em’s still alive. Can’t you see how wrong this is?”

Sheriff Murphy just looks away, shamefaced.

Bellflower dismisses Nadine and calls Al Northrup to the stand. He looks like he ain’t slept in a month of Sundays. Here we go.

“Mr. Northrup, my condolences on the loss of your son.” Bellflower is doing the fake sympathy thing again, his voice all syrupy sweet. My bile rises. “Can you tell us what happened on the night of the fire, to your best recollection?”

“I . . . um, I was there with Harlan and his girl. Abigail. We was just watchin’ the service when I noticed Miss Doherty. She come walking through the crowd. Somethin’ weren’t right about how she moved.”

“In what way?”

“She slithered, like . . . like a serpent on two legs.”

Oh, good Lord.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir, and when she got to the front, and was facin’ you, I saw her eyes go all white. Then the fire started.”

This makes me even more nervous. Everything else he’s said is hogwash, but this . . . this could have the ring of truth to it. My eyes must do something strange when that fiery surge washes over me. More than one person has said the same. It’s the truth in the middle of the lies that’ll prove to be my undoing.

“And after the fire started, you lost sight of Harlan?”

“Yes, sir. And that girl, she was just standing there, off to the side, watching as everything burned. She was smiling, almost like she was proud.”

“Thank you, Mr. Northrup. I won’t ask you any further questions. You’ve been through enough.”

One by one, Bellflower calls more witnesses. People I’ve tended while sick. Men and women Granny has known since they were babies. They tell their tall tales—each one wilder than the next. A man, made of shadow, walking backward through a cornfield. A cat with human eyes. Children bitten and scratched in their sleep by unseen entities. Blood coming up from wells and springhouses instead of water. A black wolf with glowing, red eyes.

The specter of a beautiful woman, singing in Sutter’s holler.

I believe that story, told in a soft, hesitant voice by little Corinne Baker, because I’ve seen her, too. Anneliese.

The rest are Bellflower’s parlor tricks.

The same kind of nonsense he told me he manifested with the Sutters: Disembodied voices. Doors slamming of their own accord and bedclothes stripped from virgins’ beds. Unseen lovers in the night.

With each witness, the tension grows inside the packed church. The sun drops low in the sky. The light fades to a sickly yellow green, like it does before a storm. I blow at the hair falling into my eyes, sweat beading along my brow and sliding down my neck. Somebody throws open one of the windows, and a blast of humid, dense air rushes in, sending the chandelier above the center aisle rocking.

Bellflower looks straight at me with a smug grin. “I call Miss Calvina Watterson to come forward and bear witness.”

I swallow hard. Calvina may be the only person he’ll call that might speak up for me. I hope she’ll hold true to her word.

She makes her way to the front, dressed in black with a corsage pinned to her dress. It’s a mourning bouquet; orchids tied with black ribbon. Her mama must have died, just as she feared. My heart jumps to my throat.

She takes a seat at the altar and pokes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She won’t meet my eye. It ain’t a good sign.

“Miss Watterson, is it true that your mother passed away yesterday?”

“Yes, sir. She did. At the hospital up in Springfield.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. And what was her cause of death?”

“She had complications of a broken hip. Arthritis.”

“But lately, she’d made a full recovery, isn’t that right?”

Calvina’s eyes dart to me, and then flicker away. “Y . . . yes. For a bit. After your healin’ service, sir.”

“Can you tell us what led you to believe Miss Doherty might have had something to do with the recent fall that brought about your mother’s death?”

He’s leading her—coaxing her to say what he wants. I stand up. “You’re full of horseshit, Bellflower.”

“Goddammit. Sit down!” Sheriff Murphy yanks me back down onto the hard wooden seat.