Page 75 of The Devil Knows Her Name

There was a loud crash from the storage section of the barn—my ceramic pots, a slow collection built from gifts, reduced to broken pottery. I didn’t flinch at the sound, barely registered the loss. What was one more? Each of these little injuries dropped like a stone into the black pool of hatred in my heart, and even though every one sank with barely a ripple in my consciousness, I knew the level was rising.

I left the barn. My front door was hanging open, and I heard the squeal and thud of furniture being moved, or perhaps tossed. The four-wheelers had disappeared, leaving winding trails through the meadow, but the buzz of their engines still reached me through the woods.

One of the cops exited the barn behind me and brushed past. I reacted before I thought better of it, shoving him in the back. He caught himself on the railing and whirled, hand instantly going to his gun.

“Fucking watch it!”

It was Mark Perry. Two days ago, he had been an annoyance, but today he was an enemy, and I would’ve torn his throat out.

I’d butchered enough roadkill to know what it would take. My hands knew the force required to rip muscle from bone, to snap tendon, to crush cartilage; I could almost feel the shape of his esophagus in my fingers, the slick slide of skin beneath my nails.

He could see that knowledge in my eyes, and he shrank back from it. He was just a village cop, after all, unfamiliar with a willingness to do true violence. Perhaps he’d thought I would forgive him, that I would understand he was only doing his job, but he saw now there would be no understanding, no forgiveness, no return to a comfortable acquaintance when this all blew over.

“What’s going on?” came Broder’s voice, and I saw Perry mulling over his words. She pushed me, he wanted to say, and it would’ve sounded like an impotent whine to his own ears.

“Nothing,” he said instead, and started back up the porch steps again. It was then that the four who’d been inside emerged.

“There’s nothing in there,” one of them said. “Just a mess.”

If nothing else, the spell on the cellar door had done its work.

“It’s a big property,” Broder said easily. “Lots of places that need searching yet.”

One of the four-wheelers returned, bumping over the ruts left in the yard by the DEC trucks. “We found the pond,” the cop said. “Pretty far back, and pretty big. Can’t tell how deep it is.”

“We’ll need the diving stuff,” Broder said gleefully. “Make the call. Why don’t we take a walk out there, Tess?”

It wasn’t a request, but I had no more intention of letting him traipse around the sanctuary unwatched than he had of letting me out of his sight. The other cop offered the four-wheeler to him; Broder swung on and looked at me expectantly. I laughed.

“Keep dreaming.”

I turned and headed toward the meadow without waiting for an answer. After a minute, the four-wheeler revved up behind me, close enough to make my eye twitch; I half expected him to run me down but was unwilling to give him the satisfaction of flinching. The vehicle stopped just short of me, and it settled into a little putter at my heels the rest of the way.

The banks of the pond were swarming with cops. Somehow it looked even larger than usual—a gaping, patient maw just waiting for the right time to close.

“How often you use that boat?” Broder asked.

“Don’t use it. Been here as long as I can remember.”

“You don’t use the pond for anything? No fishing?”

“Don’t stock it. The only thing you’d catch in there are frogs and snappers.”

“Watch out for snapping turtles, boys!” Broder called, and a few of the cops pushing through the edges of the cattails beat a hasty retreat.

From beyond the pond I heard the other four-wheelers buzzing through the trees, and there was a clatter of rising wings and rasping calls. Dozens of crows passed over us, heading west and crying a warning. The trees stirred with their passing although there was no wind, and somewhere in the woods, an engine cut short.

We all heard it. Broder turned to scan the forest, the hand on his belt sliding a few inches toward his gun. “You got any friends out here, Tess?”

“Not unless you count the trees,” I said. “I’m guessing you don’t.”

Next came a loud snap, sharp as a whip, and someone shouted, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

Every cop’s head turned that time, and Broder shouted, “That you, Sid?”

There was no answer, but a few seconds later, another officer came crashing through the brush on foot, pants covered in muck to the knee. He was pale as milk above his too-tight collar, long scratches standing out alarmingly across his cheeks.

“I hate this fucking place,” he spit. “I just lost the four-wheeler.”