Black Creek Crossing

Chapter 28

HE FLASH OF LIGHTNING, AND THE CRASH OF THUNDER that seemed to come at the same instant, made Marty Sullivan flinch so badly he dropped the pneumatic hammer he’d been using, which smashed down onto Ritchie Henderson’s toe.

Henderson jerked his injured foot out from under the heavy tool, bellowing with pain. “Jesus! What the hell—” But the rest of his words were lost as the sky seemed to open and a torrent of rain began pouring out of the roiling clouds overhead.

Holding his arms up in a futile effort to fend off the sudden downpour, Marty loped toward the site office, a slapped-together shed that was more of a lean-to than anything else. With most of its floor space already taken up by the wide counter covered with architectural plans for the project, there was barely enough space for Jack Varney himself, let alone all the men who worked for him. First come, first served, Marty thought as he ducked under the structure’s steeply sloping roof.

“Where the hell’d this come from?” Varney asked, gazing up at the sky as Marty tried to shake off some of the water that had already soaked through his shirt and jeans. “Am I nuts, or was it clear as a bell five minutes ago?”

Before Marty could respond, Ritchie Henderson hobbled into the crowded shelter. “What the hell goes with you, Sullivan?” he snarled, glowering at Marty with unconcealed fury. “First you drop the hammer on my foot, then you don’t even stick around to see if I’m okay.”

“You got here, didn’t you?” Marty shot back. “So I guess you’re not hurt too bad.”

Jack Varney gazed out into the downpour. “The pneumatic hammer?” he asked.

Ritchie Henderson nodded. “Lightning made him jump so bad it fell right out of his hand.”

“I coulda been killed!” Marty howled. “What’d you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to take care of the tools you use,” Varney interjected before Henderson could say anything. “Where is it now?”

“How the hell should I know?” Marty growled.

“You were using it — you’re responsible for it,” Varney replied, deciding to ignore the contempt in Sullivan’s voice. “What did you think — Ritchie would bring it in for you?”

“It’s fuckin’ pouring out there—” Marty began.

“Then you better get that hammer now,” Varney snapped, his eyes narrowing angrily. “It starts rusting out there, I’ll take it out of your paycheck.”

“You can’t do that,” Marty complained.

“The hell I can’t,” the foreman growled. “If you don’t like it, talk to Ed Fletcher.” His eyes bored into Marty, who stood his ground for only a few seconds before breaking.

“Maybe I’ll just do that,” Marty groused, but the truculence in his voice was tinged with enough of a whine that Varney knew he wouldn’t.

With the rain still pouring down, Marty left the shelter of the lean-to and slogged out toward the spot where he and Henderson had been working when the storm suddenly broke. The rain was coming down so hard that puddles had formed all over the site. They were fast merging together, turning the whole area into a muddy pond. Twice, he nearly sprawled out into the mud, but finally he found the pneumatic hammer, disconnected it from the air hose, and was about to start back toward the lean-to when another bolt of lightning struck, instantly followed by a thunderclap even louder than the first. This time, though, Marty was prepared for it, and ducking his head low into the rain, he began running back to the shed.

He was still a dozen yards away when he lost his footing and sprawled face forward into the mud. Swearing under his breath, he pulled himself to his feet and lurched the last few yards to the lean-to, where Jack Varney and Ritchie Henderson weren’t even trying to conceal their laughter.

“Here’s your damn hammer,” Marty rasped, his fury building. “And guess what? I’m through for the day!”

“We all are,” Varney replied, taking the pneumatic hammer. He wiped it off with a rag and laid it on the counter where the plans were spread out. “No way we can get anything more done today, even if this quits. See you Monday.”

Too soaked and muddy even to stop for a drink somewhere, Marty got into his old Chevelle, started the engine, and cursed when the windshield wipers refused to work. Jamming the car into gear, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and watched with grim satisfaction as the rear wheels spewed enough mud that neither Henderson nor Varney could avoid it. Serves ’em right, he thought as he sped away into the storm.

The only stop he did make on the way home was to buy a couple of six-packs, and by the time he got home he’d already consumed one of them.

“Angel?” he called out as he lurched through the front door. “You here?” When there was no answer, he went through the house to the kitchen, peeled off his muddy clothes and left them in a pile in the corner, then cracked open another beer. Wearing nothing but his underpants, he flopped down onto his favorite chair and stared moodily out at the raging storm. Where the hell was Angel? She should have been home by now. But even as the question came into his mind, Marty Sullivan knew the answer.

She was with that kid again.

And if he caught them, this time there’d be hell to pay.

Myra Sullivan had instinctively crossed herself and uttered a silent prayer to the Blessed Mother when the first bolt of lightning had struck, and repeated the prayer as the thunderclap rattled the windows of the church.

“Merciful heavens,” she breathed as Father Mike came through the door that led to the tiny sacristy a few minutes later. “It felt like the lightning was so close it might have hit the steeple!”

Father Mike smiled wryly. “I like to think that if God is going to strike us with lightning, He’ll at least have the good sense to strike down the heretics across the street.” When Myra Sullivan showed no sign of understanding that he was making a joke, his smile faded. “Actually, it probably hit the tree in their cemetery,” he said. “There used to be a legend that every time that tree was struck by lightning, it meant someone in town was practicing witchcraft.”

Myra’s eyes widened. “Surely no one believes such a thing!”

“I don’t, and I suspect no one else does either. In fact, you’d better hope no one does.”

“Me?” Myra asked. “What are you talking about?”

“You remember the storm that hit on Saturday morning?” he asked. “The day your family arrived?”

“We were just starting to unload the truck,” Myra said, shuddering at the memory. “It could have ruined everything we own.”

“Well, at least one bolt of lightning hit the tree in the cemetery across the street. And with you moving into the old place out at the Crossing…” He let his words trail off, shrugging.

“What are you talking about?” Myra asked.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” the priest said. “Just all the old stories.” The look of incomprehension in Myra’s eyes made him cock his head slightly. “Didn’t your sister tell you about the stories?”

Myra frowned. “She told me about the last people that lived there,” she said.

Father Mike’s brows lifted a fraction of an inch. “There are legends that the two women who were accused of being witches here in Roundtree were burned under that tree, and from what I’m told, at least three people swore they saw the tree being struck by lightning at the same time that the women were casting spells.”

Myra’s expression darkened. “I don’t believe in witchcraft.”

“Nor do I,” the priest agreed. “And I doubt there’s a single person in town who does. But four hundred years ago they believed it enough to burn two women.”

“Surely it’s only a story,” Myra breathed.

“If it is, it’s pretty well documented — at least the burning part.” When Myra still looked doubtful, he led her toward the front door of the church, opening it just wide enough so they could peer at the storm raging outside. “It’s that tree over there,” he said, pointing to the barely visible form of an enormous tree that stood in the far reaches of the cemetery behind the Congregational church. “See the little stone building near the tree? That’s the original church. In fact, the women who were burned as witches were apparently relatives of the minister. His brother’s wife and daughter, I believe, or maybe his uncle’s. At any rate, the story is that they dragged them in from—”

He stopped abruptly, and Myra could tell by the look on his face that there was something he’d been about to say that he changed his mind about. “From where, Father?” she asked.

Father Mike Mulroney hesitated a moment, then decided there was no point in not finishing the story. It was, after all, just a story; whatever crimes the two women may have committed four centuries earlier, they certainly had nothing to do with witchcraft, no matter what people at the time might have thought. “Actually, they lived in your house,” he said. Seeing the shock in Myra’s eyes, he suddenly wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

Then, as Myra turned to gaze at the tree once more, a brilliant flash of light crossed the sky, and a jagged bolt of lightning, crackling and making the air smell of ozone, lashed down from the thunderheads above, struck the topmost branches of the great tree in the cemetery, and vanished in a thunderclap that shook the building.

“Saints preserve us,” Myra breathed.

Father Mike nodded absently, but his eyes stayed on the tree.

Just like last week, the lightning had struck the middle of the tree, and he assumed it must have passed all the way down through its trunk to reach the ground.

Last week, after the storm had passed, he had walked across the street to have a look at the tree.

And he’d seen nothing. The tree showed no signs of damage at all.

No burns on its bark.

No broken limbs.

Nothing.

Later this afternoon, he decided, when this storm had also blown on through, he would go across the street again, just to make sure. But even from here he could see that once again the tree had been struck by lightning and nothing had happened to it.

Nothing at all.