The Night Strangers - Chris Bohjalian [122]
You think about all that he has just shared with you, unsure where to begin. “So, your parents never told you they had buried your brother here,” you observe after a long moment.
“Nope. But then the State Police called and I knew.”
“Why did they do it? Your parents?”
He sighs. “I was never here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was never here—at your house, in this kitchen. That’s what I mean. What I am about to tell you? You can tell no one I told you.”
“My wife—”
“No one. I presume you are the sort of man who tells his wife everything. Am I right?”
“Yes,” you agree, though these days you know that’s a lie.
“Well, you cannot tell her this. Act on the information as you see fit. But you cannot tell her I was ever here or we ever spoke. She works for John Hardin. I know Reseda sold you this house. So, can you promise me that?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
He seems to think about whether he really can trust you. Finally: “I suppose you’ve seen a lot of the women.”
“The women?”
“The herbalists. I suppose they’ve been here a lot.”
“No. Not really.”
“That’s surprising.”
“I mean, they haven’t been strangers. I’ve been to John and Clary Hardin’s house for dinner. And Anise is constantly feeding us,” you tell him, although ever since you saw the effect of her baked goods on some ants on your walkway, you have done all that you can to prevent your family from eating any. You have certainly eaten none yourself. If you could be absolutely sure that Emily had not already been commandeered into the group, you would share with her your suspicions. “And, of course, Reseda became our real estate agent after Sheldon died,” you continue.
“ ’Course she did. She saw you had twins. You may recall, she was not my first choice in a real estate agent.”
“And you did not come to the closing.”
“I try to steer clear of them—the women. They showing interest in your girls? The twins?”
“I think my girls see a lot more of them than I do. My wife has them go to their houses all the time after school.” Again, there it is: that vague fear that Emily already is one of them.
At this Hewitt sits forward in his chair and grasps the edges of the kitchen table with both hands. “They think they’re witches.”
You have had this idea, too, but not in such a literal sense. In your mind, it was always hyperbole. Exaggeration. Even, early on, condescension. “Go on.”
Hewitt repeats himself, enunciating each word perfectly, no contraction this time: “They think they are witches. That is what they believe. They call themselves herbalists, but it’s all witchcraft. Most of what they do is harmless. But not all of it. Not all the time.”
“How big is the group?”
“How many have you met?” he asks, his voice growing a little more urgent. You realize he hasn’t answered your question.
“I don’t know. Maybe five or six.”
“My mother was one. She was always in that greenhouse. Always.”
“You said most of what they do is harmless. What isn’t?”
He looks straight at you, his eyes locked on yours. “They’re crazy,” he says, his usually laconic voice growing urgent and intense. “They believe in blood sacrifice. I would not put it past them to try again to kill a child.”
“One of my girls?”
“One of your girls. That’s why I should never have let you buy this place.”
“Tell me the truth: Why was your mother hiding knives and hatchets all over the house? Who was she afraid of?”
“I told you, I didn’t know she was hiding those things.”
“She wasn’t trying to protect you and your brother?”
“No. She did that long after my brother was gone. She was probably trying to protect herself.”
“From?”
“Who do you think?”
“Well, the women. The herbalists. But you said she was one of them.”
“She was until they took her son. My brother.”
“Your brother slashed his wrists.”
“I don’t think so. I think something went wrong.”
“With a ritual?”
“A ceremony. While they were making one of their potions. I’ll never know because Sawyer died and my mother would never talk about it.