Yes. She liked the man for his socks. She would admit it, but only to herself. Oh, God, if any of her family found out she had a sock crush she’d have to leave town. Perhaps the country. And then the planet.
But there was no denying it: She was hooked the moment she spied his Mona Lisa socks. Subsequent visits had revealed Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night and Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss socks.*
It was her fate to find such a man irresistible: The cop who knew just how fucked up her family was and thus, sensibly, would want nothing to do with her on a personal level. He kept her at arm’s length, always, and she couldn’t fault him for it. They’d never be more than coconspirators. Wait, that wasn’t the right word . . .
Never mind. Focus.
Here, again, the visitation room: white walls, shiny white floor, long wooden benches with long tables, all set up (as comfortably as mass-produced benches and chairs could be) to seat fifty or so. The far wall had a line of chairs against the glass so people could talk to inmates who for whatever reason couldn’t come into the visitation room itself. It looked like a well-lit classroom and smelled like a gym.
It was a large room that always felt claustrophobic. The first time she had visited her uncle years after the murder—since her mother had refused to give consent, she’d had to wait until she was old enough—she’d been terrified the guards
(correction officers, that was the phrase. just like it wasn’t a prison, it was a correctional facility; they’re not guards, they’re correction officers who cheerfully work at a correctional facility—so it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad)
wouldn’t let her leave. It seemed inconceivable that uniformed strangers could now tell her up-for-anything uncle where to go and what to eat and when to sleep. And if those people had control of him, surely they could easily take control of her?
Even now, years later, a part of her brain frets until the gates close behind her, until she’s walked through the lot, until she’s gotten in the car and driven away. That small scared scrap of brain finally, finally shuts up when IDOC is in the rearview.
’Til next time.
Here he came, her uncle, and she was struck all over again by the irony: Prison agreed with him. Dennis Drake was in his sixties, but other than de rigueur salt-and-pepper hair, cropped close in a buzz cut, and laugh lines,
(are they laugh lines if they’re caused by stress?)
he could have passed for mid-forties. She knew that Dennis looked as her father would have if he’d lived long enough; born thirteen months apart, they’d occasionally been mistaken for fraternal twins.
Dennis was in a Minions-yellow IDOC jumpsuit, socks, loafers. Clean shaven and pale, with the grayish complexion of someone long years away from sunlight. His light blue eyes scanned each of them and she could practically feel him adjusting to their new, adult ages in his head. Hell, when had he last seen his son? Had to be . . .
“Hi, Dad.” None of them had taken seats, so it should have been the easiest thing in the world for Archer to take those three or four steps and embrace his father. But it seemed to take forever for him to get there, and the hug was as impersonal as a hug could be: arms forming a stiff A-frame, nothing touching below their shoulders. “’S been a while.” To put it mildly . . . This was Archer’s third visit in ten years.
“Archer.”
“This is my fiancée, Leah Nazir.”
“Yeah, I remember her from your letters.” Dennis nodded to Leah, who was probably the least uncomfortable person in the group,
(what a pleasant change that must be!)
and extended his blocky hand, the knuckles slightly swollen.
(he’s getting so old in this cage)
“Nice to meet you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Drake. It’s nice to meet you.”
A small, crooked smile. “Is it?”
Leah smiled and shrugged, and tightened her grip just a bit.
This. This. This was the moment. The Aimee Boorman of Insighting would, in this one grasp of hands, see something momentous from his past that would help them figure out what really happened. From there they could figure out how he’d ended up in that particular room on that particular night, and from there, they could deduce and find the real culprit and justice would finally finally finally be served.
It would work because the universe practically demanded it. It would work because it was no coincidence that Archer got involved with Leah at the same time the irritating jackass in charge of her father’s murder case retired. Events such as those were too momentous and perfect to be written off as “random coinkey-dink,” as Mitchell would put it.
But never mind Mitchell. Leah and Dennis were still shaking hands. Then they stopped shaking hands. And—and—
Nothing.
Wait! Give it a few seconds. It’ll happen, THE UNIVERSE WANTS THIS TO HAPPEN.
Nothing. Instead they were shuffling around, finding chairs, settling in for their allotted time, trying to get as comfortable as possible considering the room
(benches!)
and the occasion.
(awkward!)
No, not entirely nothing. Something was happening, because Leah was looking at her, and there was something like resigned patience in her face . . . and . . . was that? Yes. Patience . . . with a dash of pity.
She knew, Angela thought, her throat closing in despair. Knew what I thought. What I hoped. Knew it’d be no good. Came anyway. Will waste no time going back to her own life once we’re done here.
Shit.
NINE
APRIL 15, 1710
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS
So the dead would stay dead and she would marry. She was old for such things—she would see thirty soon, and felt a thousand—but, regardless, her father would see that she lacked for nothing. As he should.
Payment rendered for twenty murders. Although it could have been worse.
Even now, she had trouble believing it had all happened, all of it had really happened, it had been like a roaring conflagration, devouring lives and smashing families and leaving only useless stinking ash behind.
Useless stinking ash was her heritage, and never was one more deserved. And it could have been worse. That was what she told herself through every day and night of the horror: Twenty murders, yes, but seventy-two were tried, so it could have been worse. Twenty murders, but nearly a hundred accused, so it could have been worse.
Rebecca Nurse was bad enough. And Bridget Bishop. And Susannah Morse. And John Proctor. They were dead and everyone was safe. They were dead and everyone was safe and if other people now had Bridget’s taverns, and Rebecca’s vast acres, and Susannah’s inheritance, and John’s many properties, that was mere coincidence and certainly nothing that should haunt her, haunt her, haunt her.
It wasn’t as though powerful men, intelligent men, men who knew a great deal more about the world than she ever would, encouraged her. Oh no-no-no. The dead were witches, and a danger to all of them and thank God and His Beloved Son they were now and forever casting their spells in hell. But she had heard her father’s complaints about Bridget’s brazen ways
(“A woman should own nothing, and certainly not taverns or public places of any sort.”)
and John’s stinginess
(“He could so easily be of assistance. And he won’t; I truly believe the devil pushes out all his good impulses.”)
and the Nurse family’s land disputes
(“We had an agreement. That particular plot of land is mine by rights. And they know it, but their greed smothers the voice of God.”)
and they were witches, they were the servants of Satan, they had devils’ marks on their bodies and spells in their lying, crying mouths and everyone was safe now, it was over and they were safe and she was to be married and it wasn’t her fault and it was all her fault.
She would marry Benjamin Baron and bear him children and teach them the Lord’s Prayer, and warn them that devils were real and often looked like ordinary people and sounded like her father. She would live to be an old woman, too old to be afraid of ghosts and it would be all right.
Everything would be all right.
TEN