There was a feminine gasp from the bed, and she fumbled the light on. By then I was gone, but sensed her coming over. Another gasp, then…
“James?” Her voice quavered with that heartbreaking hope, now tinged with anguish. “James? Oh, please, darling, talk to me. I know you’re here.”
She’d picked up on the cologne.
“James? Please…”
This would be tough. I drifted over to a wall and gradually took shape, keeping it slow so she had time to stare, and if not get used to me, then at least not scream.
Hands to her mouth, eyes big, and her skin dead white, she looked ready to faint. This was cruel. A different kind from Bradford’s type of torture, but still cruel.
“James sent me,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “Please don’t be afraid.”
She’d frozen in place and I wasn’t sure she understood.
I repeated myself and she finally nodded.
“Where is he?” she demanded, matching my soft tone.
“He’s with God.” It seemed best to keep things as simple as possible. “Everything that man told you was a lie. You know that now, don’t you?”
She nodded again, the jerky movement very similar to Abby’s mannerism. “Please, let me speak to James.”
“He knows already. He said to tell you it wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing to forgive. It was just his time to go, that’s all. Not your fault.”
“But it was.”
“Nope.” I raised my right hand. “Swear to God. And I should know.”
That had her nonplussed. “What… who are you?”
“Just a friend.”
“That cologne, it’s his.”
“So you’d know he sent me. Flora, he loves you and knows you love him. But this is not the way to honor his memory. He wants you to give it up before it destroys you. He’s dead and you’re alive. There’s a reason you’re here.”
“What? Tell me!”
“Doesn’t work like that, you have to find out for yourself. You won’t find answers in a Ouija board, though.”
Flora had tentatively moved closer to me. “You look real.”
“Thanks, I try my best. I can’t stay long. Not allowed. I have to make sure you’re clear-headed on this. No more guilt-it wasn’t your fault-get rid of this junk, and live your life. James wants you to be happy again. If not now, then someday.”
“That’s all?”
“Flora… that’s a lifetime. A good one if you choose it.”
“I’ll… all right. Would you tell James-”
“He knows. Now get some sleep. New day in the morning. Enjoy it.” I was set to gradually vanish again, then remembered-“One last thing, Flora. James’ wedding band.” I held my hand out.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“Yes, you can. It belongs with him and you know it. Come on.” Fresh tears ran down her face, but maybe this time there would be healing for her. She had his ring on a gold chain around her neck, and reluctantly took it off. She read the inscription one more time, kissed the ring, and gave it over.
“Everything will be fine,” I said. “This is from James.” I didn’t think he’d mind. I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, very lightly, and vanished before she could open her eyes.
For the next few hours I drove around Chicago, feeling like a prize idiot and hoping I’d not done even worse damage to Flora than Alistair Bradford. I didn’t think so, but the worry stuck.
Eventually I found my way back to that big cemetery and got myself inside, walking quickly along the path to the fancy mausoleum and the grave behind it.
I was damned tired, but had one last job to do to earn Abby Saeger’s five bucks.
Pinching the ring in my fingers as Flora had done at the séance, I extended my arm and disappeared once more, this time sinking into the earth. It was the most unpleasant sensation, pushing down through the broken soil, pushing until what had been my hand found a greater resistance.
That would be James Weisinger’s coffin.
I’d never attempted anything like this before, but was reasonably sure it was possible. This was a hell of a way to find out for certain.
Pushing just a little more against the resistance, it suddenly ceased to be there. Carefully not thinking what that meant, I focused my concentration on getting just my hand to go solid.
It must have worked, because it hurt like a Fury, felt like my hand was being sawed away at the wrist. Just before the pain got too much I felt the gold ring slip from my grasp.
One instant I was six feet under with my hand in a coffin and the next I was stumbling in the snow, clutching my wrist and trying not to yell too much.
My hand was still attached. That was good news. I worked the fingers until they stopped looking so claw-like, then sagged against a tree.
What a night.
I got back in my car just as the sleet began ticking against the windows, trying to get in. It was creepy I wanted some sound to mask it but hesitated turning on the radio, apprehensive that “Gloomy Sunday” might be playing again.
What the hell. Music was company, proof that there were other people awake somewhere. I could always change the station.
When it warmed up, Bing Crosby sang “Pennies from Heaven.” Someone at the radio station had noticed the weather, perhaps, and was having his little joke.
I felt that twinge again, but now it raised a smile.
The Judgement by Anne Perry
The court came to order and the Judge entered, not with the shrill call of bugles or the roll of drums, but in silence and alone. His men-at-arms were outside, breastplates under their tunics as always, swords at the ready, and amulets at their necks. Since this was a trial for murder by witchcraft, perhaps this last was the most important.
The Judge took his seat in the high, carved chair, behind the ancient bench with its runes and symbols so dark with use they were almost impossible to read. He was a tall man, but beneath his voluminous robes his body might have been any shape.
The Prosecutor waited as everyone settled in their places. There was a big crowd today, drawn by fear and excitement. He was impatient to begin, and he could see that the Judge was also. It was clear in his hard, clever face, even though he made no move to hasten the ushers. Perhaps he liked seeing them in their black robes, moving like shadows, or reminders of doom.
The Procurator shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He knew he would win. It was a simple case of a woman who had lusted after her brother-in-law. When he had rejected her, forcing her to face the truth of his loyalty to his wife, she had revenged herself by casting a spell which had caused his death. Murder by witchcraft could hardly be clearer. The trial was really just to demonstrate that justice was done. To begin with he had been impatient with the waste of time and the cost of it, until he had appreciated the deterrent effect on other women who might be tempted to such a thing. This new Judge was right to proceed, and publicly. Regrettably, it was a necessary performance. These days too many people were ignorant of the reality of dark powers. They needed reminding of justice, and where it was breached, of punishment.
At last they were settled, and the Chief Usher read out the charge. The accused denied it. Her voice might normally be pleasant, her diction was beautiful, but now she was strained with fear. Good. So she should be. The Prosecutor looked at her curiously. She was quite tall. And slender. The weight of the chains on her must hurt. She was not beautiful, there was too much passion in her face. It was clever and wilful, perhaps what should be expected in one who turned to sorcery.
He stood up. “My fellow citizens!” His voice rang around the room. He surveyed them. After all, this was for their benefit, or it could have been done secretly. He was interested to see that there were as many women here as men. Some were in fine dresses of rich fabric decorated with embroidery, the heavy girdles around their waists were studded with gems, their hair braided with ribbons. Others wore plain browns and drabs, hair tied back with scarves, as if lately come in from some form of work.