GangWay

By Mark Goldberg

Book Two in the Tempest Trilogy. Tempest is back. On his return, he becomes Father Mercado, beloved priest of Little Havana's Church of St. Tomás. He encourages a Latin gang to expand into West Miami. Holding them off is West Miami's gang, Rampage. Enter Bryce Holt, an undercover cop and Pam Cassidy Griffen. Together, they resolve the war, but is Holt too late to stop Tempest's ultimate plan?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Goldberg
• Release date: Nov 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452346816

Book preview

PART ONE

RED LIGHT, GREEN LIGHT

It was a time without pleasures in a town without smiles. A hard January had turned into a difficult February and everyone wore a winter face in 1692.

There was talk that God had turned his countenance from his chosen people. That He sent the Indians upon them — sometimes from the west, sometimes from the north — and the populace took to their chilled homes, huddled behind locked shutters, holding tight to their loaded flintlocks and worn family bibles and wondered what they had done to so anger the Heavenly Father.

The Indians neither drove off nor killed as many villagers as did the smallpox that followed. The disease brought dozens to bed with high fever and aches. Blemishes turned to blisters that spewed forth luteous pus. Ultimately, the Lord took entire households unto him while the townsfolk sought surcease from the Almighty’s wrath.

It was then, in the dull heart of winter, when the harvest was over and the ground too hard to build on, that the girls of Salem Village became possessed.

There were many young, unmarried women in Salem Village. The Puritan belief that marriage was serious business and not favored for the very young left many — some as old as twenty — still manless and unprovided for. These were left without a sense of direction or dignity. They had no place and no position. Yet, they had an instinct for repressed vitality with all manner of cravings and urges for which village life provided no outlet. But in which the Devil was a willing participant.

There was no doubt that it was the Devil and his witches that visited those small, prim matrons, causing them to scream and shake in fear of things no one else could see. But who had offered the Evil One entrance and pointed the way toward these innocent children? After the citizens of Salem Village had looked to themselves and to their God for the cause of their afflictions, they listened more closely to the words of their daughters. And looked to their neighbors for the cause.

A church deacon offered up his home’s great chamber for use as courtroom in this litigation with the Devil. Yet, on March 1, 1692, every man, woman and child in Salem Village was joined by those from Beverly, Ipswich, Topsfield and Salem Town. The Village overflowed with the spiritually uplifted. Nothing would hold so many people, drums beating and flags a-flying, save the town’s church meeting-house. And, so, the trials were moved therein. After all, a hanging was one of the few pleasures the Puritans did not deny their young. It was an edifying experience.

Turning the minister’s chair around created the prisoner’s bar of justice. The pulpit was dragged aside and a broad table was brought from the ordinary room for the magistrates and their secretary. The afflicted girls — the accusers — sat facing the officials’ table in the first benches of the hall. The rest of the church was filled with the throng, dressed in their Sunday best and noisily awaiting the excitement of the occasion. All that remained was the arrival of the magistrates.

Isaiah Tempesti della Turin de Castile wrapped his greatcoat tightly about his tall, thin frame, as he made his way to the meeting-house. The bruising wind and biting cold meant nothing to a being 200 years undead, but appearances would have to be maintained for him to gain the utmost pleasure from the game about to be played. Tempesti’s close-cropped, dirty-gray hair sat like a cap of porcupine quills, running from a tight widow’s peak to the back of his collar. Grayer still were his eyes, active as spinning tornadoes, through which he would relish in the opportunity to view the results of his Puritan verdicts. Known in this time as John Hathorne, Tempesti had assumed the guise of the illustrious Senior Magistrate of Massachusetts on his arrival in Salem Village. None knew Tempesti by sight. And none would know Hathorne evermore, as Tempesti had drained the crimson life force from the now-dead magistrate and tossed his remains into a shallow ravine a few brief miles from Salem Village. Thus introducing himself as Hathorne to local Magistrate Jonathan Corwin assured Tempesti the position of lead prosecutor once the trials began.

The false Hathorne turned to Corwin, whose cheeks were reddened by the blistering winter wind. There are two of them, Jon?

Nay. Three there are, when counting the Indian.

Tempesti stopped, turning his back to the wind. His strong, deep voice seemed to cancel the sounds of nature. Do I hear you right, Jon? Are we trying a half-breed heathen in God’s court? Have you yet seen this woman, Jon? I am told she barely speaks English. Worse, they say she mixes strange brews and fashions small figures in the images of the children. Need we waste the time of a trial on her when there is guilt written in her every action?

Corwin nodded, his eyes squinted against the wind’s slicing blasts. Reverend Parris says it was she who was the recreant that began this all. The other witches follow her call. She must be tried, John. She can expose all others that plague these young girls.

Tempesti struck gavel to board just once and the large hall fell quiet.

The seven accusers sat silent in their first-row benches. Elisabeth Parris was but nine years old. A creation of her Reverend father — the religious leader of all of Salem Village — she was frail and lonely, brought up to fear damnation and predestination. Aside from her cousin, Abigail Williams, Betty’s only true friend and confidant was Tituba, the half-black, half-Indian servant that worked in her home. Of evenings, while her father prepared sermons and her mother traveled off performing charity work, Elisabeth would snuggle close to Tituba. The two would sit by the fire for hours and the woman would tell the child old tales and nonsense rhymes remembered from her Barbados homeland.

At eleven years, Abigail Williams was quite different from her cousin. Abigail loved to attend church and hear her uncle’s sermons on the Devil. Though the words often caused nightmares, they also offered Abigail a horrid fascination of evil. She felt she would inherit salvation along with the family pewter and glorified every Sunday in the knowledge that the blessed would always look down on the torments of the damned.

The other accusers — Ann Putnam, Jr., Mary Warren, Mercy Lewis, Mary Walcott and Elizabeth Hubbard, aged 12 to 20 — filled seats alongside and behind Elisabeth and Abigail. They fussed with their fingers and shifted continually in their chairs. But, their eyes always stayed focused on Abigail Williams. Whether it be from the fear of gazing at the accused or merely searching for a sign from their young leader could not be told from their visage.

Abigail leaned close to her young cousin and whispered in her ear. Today, little Betty, we shall make far more noise in this world than we have ever been permitted to make. She took Elisabeth’s small hand in her own and gave it a brief squeeze. The child could not be aware of the false magistrate’s acute hearing, and since Tempesti rarely smiled, she would never notice his enjoyment of her words.

Elisabeth didn’t acknowledge her cousin’s statement. She retrieved her hand and wiped its palm on her apron.

Neither of the magistrates, Corwin nor Tempesti, had a working experience of the General Court or any formal legal training. The Puritans, in fact, had a poor opinion of lawyers in general and refused the professional practice of law in the colony. Yet, sincere in his duty, Corwin had boasted with sinful pride of his careful preparation for this time upon the bench.

Corwin spoke of how he had forced himself into biblical studies on the nature of witchcraft. He wanted certain understanding as to how one recognizes a witch. Unfortunately, the Bible offered no definition of witchcraft, other than listing it alongside sodomy, lying and idolatry. But there was one statement found: ‘Thou shalt not permit a witch to live.’ Biblical judgment, pure and simple. However, Corwin was still without a true manner in which to legally identify a witch.

He shared with the man he thought of as Hathorne information gleaned from the chapters on witchcraft in Glanvil’s Collection of Sundry Tryals in England and Ireland, Bernard’s Guide to Jurymen, and Keeble’s Common Law. He spoke excitedly of the precedents found in Baxter’s Certainty of the World of Spirits, R. Burton’s Kingdom of Darkness and Cotton Mather’s Memorable Providences.

Ultimately, the two men agreed on certain precepts derived from Corwin’s studies. Should the accused display on the body a witch’s tit — any unnatural excrescence from which the Devil or his followers might suck the accused’s blood — they are to be considered a witch. Should any mischief follow anger between the accused and their neighbor, the accused are to be considered a witch. Most of all, understanding that the Devil cannot assume the shape of an innocent person in doing mischief to mankind, those that do change their shape are most certainly to be considered a witch.

Corwin had instituted searches for the Devil’s mark, or witch’s tit. These were performed by juries of the suspect’s sex. Visiting the prison, they would undress the bodies of the accused, carefully examining every inch and running pins through any abnormality found.

‘Mischief following anger’ encouraged the entire colony to create spite lists, naming everything from petty quarrels to the breaking of a cartwheel. Most damning was the knowledge that the innocent could not change their shape. This enabled villagers to accuse their neighbors, based on hallucinations, dreams and silly fancies which could not be disproven.

Sarah Good was brought before the bar.

With a look and attitude reflecting seventy years, people often forgot that Sarah Good had a child — Dorcas — who was barely five years old. One of seven children, Sarah Good’s early life presented no hint of the sorrow her later years would bring. Yet, when John Solart, the prosperous innkeeper who was her father, committed suicide, control of his estate went to Sarah’s mother. The woman refused to share even the smallest bit of the wealth with any of her offspring.

Sarah turned to marriage, wedding her indentured servant, one Daniel Poole. The man quickly died, leaving Sarah nothing more than his own heavy debts. Sarah took next the hand of William Good, but the extended hands of Daniel Poole’s creditors grasped whatever money the new couple had. Being dispossessed of their all, William and Goody Good were forced to beg in the street for food and shelter. Sarah’s now-tattered appearance, her begging and pipe-smoking unsettled the populace and most shied away from her and William, lest they invoke her powers for inflicting evil.

Sarah was imprisoned at Ipswich jail prior to trial. Three times on the five-mile journey to Salem Village she leaped from her horse, attempting to escape. Now, standing before the magistrates, Sarah Good lost none of her vitriol; reflecting anger and contempt at the court, the charges, and the fearsome crowd seated behind her.

Corwin passed a sheaf of papers across to Tempesti. The senior magistrate thumbed through the documents before ever acknowledging the accused. Finally, Tempesti shook the handful of papers in Sarah Good’s direction.

You have quite a bit of evidence against you already, Sarah Good.

The words of ill-mannered children!

And of upstanding members of Salem Village.

People who hate me because they have more and refuse to share it with those in want.

People like your husband, William Good?

Sarah fell silent. Tempesti waited as Sarah Good searched the meeting-house for her husband, but he was not to be found. What can he say? He is jailed, as well.

Well, now, let’s see. Tempesti rifled through the papers. He separated one from the sheaf and held it at arm’s distance, reading aloud. "I, William Good, do testify of my fear that my wife, Sarah Good, either is a witch or will be one very quickly. I know of this by her bad carriage to me. I may say with tears that she is an enemy to all good.

Last night it was I saw a wart — a witch’s tit — below her right shoulder. Never had I seen such a mark before.

Tempesti let the document slip from his fingers to the tabletop. He said, mater of factly, Your own husband, madam. He then shuffled through the remaining papers, holding each aloft as he spoke. Samuel and Mary Abbey claim they lost seventeen head of cattle, besides sheep and hogs and both do believe they died through witchcraft, all within two years from the time they sent you and your husband out of their house. Do you deny that, Sarah Good.

Piffle. She spat upon the floor.

Perhaps you recall Zechariah Herrick’s loss of one or two of his best cows after you cursed his son, Henry?

They forbade me from sleeping in their barn, lest my pipe smoking set it a-fire. It was winter, it was cold and it was two years past!

And the family Gadge? Sarah and Thomas both claim you fell to muttering and scolding them extremely and the next morning one of their cows died in a sudden terrible and strange unusual manner so that some of the neighbors did think it be done by witchcraft.

"‘Twas the pox that killed that cow, just as hunger and the winter cold almost killed me. I came to the Gadge home begging food or clothing. They offered me no kindness and sent me away."

Tempesti neither looked up from the papers nor down at the accused. His voice was direct, but not cutting. Have you made no contract with the Devil?

No.

Tempesti noted the expression on Corwin’s face. He was certain the magistrate had expected Sarah Good’s denial. Instead, Corwin dropped his quill onto the table and sat back in his chair, obviously waiting to see how Tempesti would handle this plea.

The senior magistrate rose from his chair and outstretched his hand in the direction of the young girls seated in the meeting-house’s first rows. Children, he intoned, look to this Sarah Good and see if she is one of the persons who have hurt you.

A chorus of screams rose from the seven girls, as though they were a choir of the damned. Foam flecked the lips of young Elizabeth Hubbard and her fingers drew into scabrous claws. With these, she rent the air above her head. Mercy Lewis collapsed onto the floor, rolling round and round in front of the magistrates’ bench. Little Annie Putnam bit at her own arm, until blood ran down both hand and chin. Abigail and Betty held to each other, wailing, trying to bury their faces in the other’s shoulder, as if looking at the witch would give Sarah Good the Power.

Tempesti’s voice rose above the screams of the accusers. Sarah Good, do you not see now what you have done? Why do you not tell us the truth? Why do you thus torment these poor children?

Sarah Good waited for the girls’ screams to die. I do not torment them.

Who do you employ then?

I employ nobody. I scorn it.

Then, how came they thus tormented?

What do I know? You bring others here and now you charge me with it.

Tempesti would not relent. Why, who was it?

I do not know, but that it was someone you brought into this meeting hall with you.

We brought you into the meeting-house, Sarah Good.

But, you brought in two more.

Who was it then that tormented the children?

Sarah Good stared at the magistrates, the one standing so tall above her and the quiet one, writing, always writing. She spun and allowed her eyes to wander the breadth of the meeting-house. Finally, she turned back to Tempesti. It was Sarah Osburn.

Tempesti waited a beat, expecting an outburst either from the young girls or the crowd. When none came, he continued his questioning. What is it you say when you go muttering away from people’s houses?

"It is the commandments. I may say my commandments, I hope."

What commandment is it?

Sarah Good cleared her throat. It is a psalm.

What psalm?

I, uh, it is sometimes difficult to remember.

Come, come Goodwife Good. Let us do away with these devilish games and offer your true confession of witchcraft to this court.

Sarah Good spit upon the meeting-house floor. This is less a court and more a children’s parlor game.

Tempesti brought his gavel down hard. Are you not religious, Sarah Good?

No less than you.

Then, who do you serve?

I serve God.

What God do you serve?

The God that made heaven and earth. And built a place in Hell for you barristers of justice and your lying, little children.

Tempesti looked to the girls at that statement, expecting them to go off on another paroxysm. He held his hands high above his head, as if warning the children to refrain from another display so soon after the last.

Do all children lie, Sarah Good? asked Tempesti, as he remained standing.

No, but many do. I’ve seen it.

What sort of children lie?

Those what’s parents do not take the time to teach them right from wrong.

Such as your child, Sarah Good? There was a stirring of the tornadoes in Tempesti’s eyes.

Confusion clouded Goody Good’s. My Dorcas? She’s just a baby, not even six years old. Barely five.

But, you have taught her right from wrong?

As best one can teach a baby.

And she does not lie?

Neither to me nor about me.

Tempesti, still standing, made a summoning motion with his hand and a young child was brought forward by a constable from the back of the meeting-house. Tiny Dorcas Good was wrapped tight against the cold, yet her thick black hair was matted and tossed in all directions. Pieces of dirt and straw clung to it and to her black dress and apron. Her cap was missing. Indeed, she looked like what she was; a little girl, taken from her mother and jailed, alone and frightened in Salem Town, for the past two days.

On seeing her mother, Dorcas attempted to go to her, but the constable kept them apart.

Tempesti turned to Corwin. And, here, Magistrate Corwin, is our tiniest witch.

Corwin’s eyes widened. But, it was Sarah Good who spoke.

How can you say that about my Dorcas? She is but a baby. Look at her.

Look at her we have, Sarah Good. And questioned her at length. Have we not, Dorcas?

The little girl simply stared up at the huge man with the broad voice. After a moment, she placed a thumb between her lips and began sucking.

Dorcas? Tempesti called again. Do you remember when I spoke to you yesterday?

The five year old nodded, without removing her thumb.

And what did you tell me, Dorcas? Do you remember telling me about your familiar?

Dorcas nodded again.

Tell the people here, Dorcas. Do you have a familiar?

The child spoke around her thumb. Oh, yes. I have a familiar.

A whisper blew through the assembled.

Tell me about your familiar, child.

Dorcas Good stood separated from her mother by only three feet. She smiled at Sarah Good from behind her thumb. When the smile was not returned, it faded from the little girl’s face and the thumb fell from her lips.

Tempesti repeated his question. Your familiar, Dorcas?

It’s a little snake, it is. She demonstrated a size between her thumb and forefinger. She, then, turned her hand over and extended the forefinger — the point of which was bruised and reddened — toward the court. It sucks on the tip of my finger. Here.

Not willing to take a confession at face value, the magistrate attempted to confuse the accused. Where did the snake suckle you, Dorcas? asked Tempesti. Was it at your breast?

No, my finger.

Was it at that spot on your back, below the shoulder blade?

My finger.

Did he go beneath your skirts?

Dorcas again looked toward Sarah Good, who returned her glance with a stare as chill as the late March frost.

No, sir, not there. Here. Dorcas again extended her forefinger where examiners observed a deep, red spot, about the size of a flea bite.

Corwin, rising to stand next to Tempesti, whispered in his ear. In truth, my reading has unsurfaced the fact that a demon in the shape of an animal may approach a witch and suck her blood. Here we have evidence of exactly that — an accursed suckage! Dear Lord, Hathorne, if a five-year-old babe is a suckling for familiars, then Satan himself has a far stronger grasp on Salem Village than any could have dreamt!

Corwin cleared his throat before he could ask his own question. Who was it gave you the little snake, child? Was it Devil or warlock?

Oh, no, sir. It was Mummy. Mummy gave me the snake. She herself has three birds — one black and one yellow — and these birds hurt the children and the afflicted persons.

She is a baby! cried Sarah Good. She leveled her own forefinger at Tempesti. She knows not nor understands what she is telling, save what you told her to speak. She is but a child.

And you, Goodwife Sarah Good, are a witch, so testified to by your townsfolk, your husband and even your small child. With that verdict, I, Chief Magistrate John Hathorne, do pass this solemn sentence.

Tempesti looked out across the entire meeting-house, as if preparing to deliver a sermon. His voice was strong and direct. "Whereas Sarah Good, the wife of William Good, at a special court held at Salem Village on this first day of March, for the Counties of Essex, Middlesex and Suffolk, was indicted and arraigned upon several indictments for using, practicing and exercising certain acts of witchcraft upon the bodies of Abigail Williams, Ann Putnam Junr, Mercy Lewis, Mary Wallcott, Elisabeth Parris, and Elizabeth Hubbard of Salem Village, Singlewomen, whereby their bodies were hurt, afflicted, pined, consumed, wasted and tormented, contrary to the form of the Statute in that Case made and provided. To which indictments she was found guilty of the felonies and witchcrafts whereof she stood indicted, I pass accordingly a sentence of Death against her, as the Law directs.

"Therefore in the name of their Majesties William and Mary now King and Queen over England and et cetera, I command you that on 19th July of this year, 1692, between the hours of eight and twelve in the afternoon, you shall be escorted from their Majesty’s jail to the appointed place of execution and there to be hanged by the neck until dead.

These word shall be my sufficient warrant.

And, the little girl?

Tempesti turned on Corwin, his eyes blazing with a cold fire. Yet, Tempesti did not address Corwin quietly. Rather, he rose once more, and spoke for the assembled, though his words were directed more so to the magistrate.

The child, Dorcas Good, is tainted by being the daughter of a witch. So, too, her testimony of a familiar and the Devil’s tit upon her finger, brand her indisputably as one of Satan’s own. It is because this court may require her additional testimony in the future that I do not now summarily sentence her to join her mother on the gallows. But, know you this, good people of Salem Village, I will brook no witch, be she five or seventy-five, to freely roam the streets of your fair community. Rather, I would see this Devil child returned to a prison cell, shackled and chained to a restraining wall, until and if ever this court has use for her again.

Sarah Good fought the constable, until the man was able to wrap one broad arm about both her shoulders, confining her fists to her sides. The little child, Dorcas Good, calmly accepted the constable’s outstretched free hand and walked with him and her mother to the meeting-house’s back entrance.

While Sarah saw nothing in her struggle to gain freedom from the constable’s grip, Dorcas appeared to study every face that returned her gaze in the courtroom. She hesitated, briefly, before the soul-searching eyes and heart-rending smile of one Mary Bradbury, who though aged and infirm, had traveled from Salisbury to attend the trial.

Goodwife Bradbury unconsciously chewed on the tip of a handkerchief which was soggy with the anguish of the day. Dorcas Good, just as unconsciously, slipped her thumb back between her lips, sucking. The constable hustled the child away, still struggling with the ire of the mother.

Bring forth Tituba. Tempesti smoothed his magistrate’s robe beneath him. He heard Corwin clear his throat, but would not chance a glance in the lesser magistrate’s direction. Rather, he wanted his first look at Tituba to be unencumbered by outside interference. He could feel the terror and fear in Corwin’s chest and read his thoughts of anger and just righteousness.

A village constable lead the accused to the prisoner’s bar. Tituba, one of the few Negroes in the colony, was a household slave belonging to the Reverend Samuel Parris. She was short and dark-skinned, with huge eyes that drew attention away from the bruises Samuel Parris had caused upon her face. While her age was listed as sixty, she had the look of one much younger and Tempesti wondered silently if that, itself, might be a manner of shape-changing.

Speak your name, woman. Tempesti’s voice cut the crowd’s chatter to silence.

I am called Tituba.

Speak your name full, woman, given and Christian.

I am Tituba, nothing more.

Her voice was throaty and she spoke in a relaxed sing-song manner which harkened Tempesti to another life, in Hispaniola, two centuries past. More so, Tempesti was amazed at the calm manner in which this woman responded. There was no trepidation, let alone remorse.

Have you a heritage, Tituba? Or are you merely a mixed-mongrel breed, like so many of your brethren?

A portion of my family has made me what your kind calls Negress. As for the rest, I am Carib Indian.

Carib! Tempesti rose and, knuckles pressed firmly against the tabletop, squared his attention directly on the accused. A Carib! Tempesti felt Corwin’s restraining hand upon his shoulder. He shook it free with a minimum of effort. He did not bother to glance at the lesser magistrate. He knew the man would be breathing into his palm, attempting to alleviate the numbing cold it received when he touched Tempesti’s shoulder.

Now Tempesti smiled. It was neither broad nor toothy. While it was his first smile in generations, it exhibited more cynicism than pleasure. Isn’t it strange how this wheel of history spins? First, imposed hatred of the unknown begets persecution, which is followed by isolation, then death at the hands of the Caribs. The brief synopsis of his past two hundred years was spoken soft enough to be heard by none. Corwin’s whispers returned Tempesti to the present, yet his mind still toyed with the past.

Corwin, what year is this?

Why, the Year of our Lord, 1692, responded the magistrate.

Is it now. So, it has taken two hundred years, but once more a Carib creates a reason for fear and an age of persecution. Shall this witch’s actions again lead us to death? Shall her witchly doings bring us again to incarcerating and ultimately hanging those she has infected? We must deal with this evil swiftly, before she has chance to taste the flesh of our children.

Corwin tugged at the shoulder of Tempesti’s robe. John, please. Take your seat and cease this prattle, before the villagers think you in league with this witch.

Tempesti snapped his head sharply in Corwin’s direction. He held one hand high above the lesser magistrate’s head, then quickly tucked it behind his own back, fearful any villager should note something suspicious about it.

Tempesti returned to his seat, scraping its chair along the hardwood floor, as he resettled himself. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, speaking softly to his fellow magistrate. As long as I exist, Corwin, I continually see things that fascinate me. A Carib, indeed.

Tempesti slowly refocused his attention on Tituba. What is your position in the Parris home?

I am the servant. I do the heavier household chores. I fetch the water from the well. I boil and pound the linens when wash day comes a-season. I empty the slops. She held up her hands, callused palms toward the magistrates. I scrub and sand the floors.

A small titter broke free from the back of the room.

Tempesti continued his questioning. Tituba, what evil spirits have you familiarity with?

None.

Why do you hurt these children?

I do not hurt them.

Who does, then?

The Devil, for aught I know. The Devil, he come to me. Told me he was God. Said I must believe in him — that was his word, must — and that I should serve him six years. If I served him, he said, he would give me many fine things.

As Tempesti questioned the woman, he caught Corwin, from the corner of his eye, taking copious handwritten notes. The man’s thoughts were shallow enough and filled with such intensity that Tempesti had little difficulty reading them. Corwin didn’t care that a secretary sat beside him writing the same words. This was testimony the lesser magistrate wanted in his own hand, to study again and again, closer and in more detail.

Tituba continued. He showed me a book and told me to sign my name in it. I told him I did not know writing and he said I should just place my mark and pointed with a long, skinny finger at the spot.

And, you did?

Tituba nodded. She rolled her eyes and framed her face with her hands. The mark was red as blood.

Were there other names you could read within the book?

Tituba huffed at Tempesti. If I cannot write, I certainly cannot read.

Nervous laughter broke out and was stifled just as quickly.

But, there was nine marks in the book, your honor, and two of them was made by Sarah Good and Sarah Osburn.

Whispers flourished amongst the gathered, between Tempesti and Corwin, and betwixt the bevy of young accusers. It was Corwin who voiced the next question.

If you cannot read, how do you know it was the mark of these women?

Tituba offered the magistrate a smug expression. Goody Good told me she made her mark there and pointed out Goody Osburn’s, too. Goody Osburn would not admit her mark to me, though. She was cross with me.

Tempesti again. Do you, a servant, not much more than a slave, come together with Sarah Good and Sarah Osburn often?

There are times. The Devil brings four witches when he comes to me; Good and Osburn and two women from Boston whose names I do not know.

And what do you do when together?

They force me to go with them and afflict the children! There was often an appearance that said to me ‘kill the children’ and if I would not go on hurting the children they would do worse to me.

The winter wind took a bite out of the meeting-house stillness, stealing in through the various cracks and imperfections of the building.

The Devil forced you to go with him?

Yes, sir.

How did he do this?

With threats and punishments.

Tempesti shook his head. No, woman. I mean how did you travel unseen? Where did you go? Salem Village is not a large township. A parade of witches would be noticed.

Tituba closed her eyes, as if trying to remember. Or trying to please with her answer. I flew upon a stick or pole and Good and Osburn behind me. We ride taking hold of one another. Don’t know how we go, for I saw no trees nor path but was presently there.

Presently where?

Tituba continued, as if she had not heard the question. Familiars they had. Sarah Good had a cat and a yellow bird, and the bird sucked her between the forefinger and the longfinger upon the right hand.

Corwin scribbled ferociously in his notebook. I wish I had the artist’s ability to render into pictures the descriptions this servant provides, John.

Yet, drawing representations of the Devil; might that of itself be high blasphemy? asked Tempesti, reveling in the fears that concept brought to Corwin’s mind. He turned back to his witness. And Sarah Osburn, Tituba? What of her familiar?

Oh, frightening things they were, my lord. Wings and two legs one had. And a head like a woman. The other was a thing all-over hairy, all the face hairy, and a long nose and I don’t know how to tell how the face looked. The thing had two legs and was about two or three feet high and went upright like a man, and last night it stood before the fire in Mr. Parris’ hall.

"‘Tis true! cried Abigail Williams. I saw it, too. I looked into its face and saw the Devil and he turned and saw me, as well!"

Elisabeth Parris screamed and groped at the air before her. I’m blind! He has taken my sight and left me in darkness. Mother! Mother! She fell across the laps of the other girls and tumbled to the floor.

The five others joined the first two with guttural noises and the jerking of their bodies. There was no surcease and the screams and motions continued for near half an hour. The children’s parents moved to their charges, but then considered prudency and remained just out of reach of them and their invisible demons.

When the court was once again quiet and the magistrates returned their attention to Tituba, Tempesti presented a final question. Tell me, Tituba, servant in Salem Village, descendant of the cannibalistic Caribs and consort to the Devil, what does this evil one look like, that our fellow villagers may seek him out and destroy him?

Quiet cast its cold hand over the room, as if it were the Devil’s quilt.

Tituba closed her eyes and a smile lit up her dark features. A tall man he was, mostly, all dressed in black, with white hair. She raised a callused finger, aiming it at Tempesti. I see his features in you.

Tempesti rose, quick to bang his gavel. The tumultuous gray tornadoes that were his eyes bore into the heart of the slave-woman witness. You shall respond to questions only, woman, and not speak to what is not asked.

But his words went unheard as all seven, young girls cried out, screeching and wailing. Mercy Lewis slid from her seat onto the floor. Ann Putnam, barely twelve years old, sat stiffly, her eyes rolled back in her head, spittle running down her chin. Abigail Williams’ body shook, as if afflicted with the palsy. Little Betty Parris cried, rubbing at her arms and breast, as if trying to remove an invisible creature.

Some in the meeting-house rose, as if to flee. Others were transfixed by the spectacle of the children performing a Devil’s dance. There were those who dropped to their knees, their hands clasped in prayer.

Tempesti hammered at his tabletop with the gavel. None paid him any mind, yet he could feel their eyes upon him. He had lost control of the room to a gaggle of bored children seeking a winter’s diversion.

Still, the young girls agonized. Next, Betty issued a hoarse choking sound, its volume surprising for so petite a child. Her affliction proved contagious, as Abigail joined her, babbling forth inhuman, rasping sounds. The older cousin dropped to all fours, scrabbled out from the bench and crawled around the hall, braying and barking. Ultimately, she was overcome with convulsions, screaming as she writhed upon the floor.

After a time, the children quieted and calmed. Mary Warren, the oldest of the accusers, helped the pale and trembling Abigail to her feet and over to her seat.

Tempesti readjusted his robes and pulled his chair back under him. Tituba had remained silent throughout the children’s demonstration, yet her crooked, black finger never dropped to her side. It remained pointed at Tempesti.

Before he could speak once more, Abigail Williams raised her finger, also pointing at the Senior Magistrate of Salem Village. ’Tis true. Tituba speaks true.

Ann Putnam and Mary Walcott also pointed at Tempesti. ’Tis true, it is you, they said as one.

Mary Warren pointed, too, but her open mouth issued no sound.

Mercy Lewis rose from her chair, joined by little Betty Parris. The two approached the magistrate’s table, pointing into the whirling, gray stare of the man they believed to be John Hathorne, Senior Magistrate of the Colony of Massachusetts. You are the Devil, screamed Mercy Lewis. Elizabeth Parris collapsed in front of the table.

Two constables rapidly approached Tempesti as his second smile barely crossed his lips. So it begins anew, he thought. While I have the ability to snap both your spines with a single blow, I shall acquiesce. I have enjoyed the repulsive performance of what you call a court of law. Now I may experience the horrors of Salem Prison, as well. This time I look forward to the incarceration.

Tempesti rose from his seat and confronted the populace one last time before being led away. You children dare to raise your finger at me? In turn, I point to every man, woman and child in this room and say the Devil is in each and every one of you. You are killing yourselves with false fears and vicious innuendo. I am neither Devil nor warlock, though, quite possibly, something more insidious. Look not to me, nor to your neighbors. Look to yourselves for the horror that lies within.

As the constables led Isaiah Tempesti Della Turin de Castile from the room, Jonathan Corwin pressed his hands together, bringing the fingertips to his lips. Perhaps we should say a brief prayer.

CHAPTER ONE

West Miami, Florida. The present.

Spiders mated quietly in a dusty corner of the hospital’s windowsill. Legs twining about each other, they stepped carefully among the web strands; their soundless bouncing barely noticeable.

Two feet away, Miami-Dade County Police Captain Dennis Coulter gripped the rail of the hospital bed and leaned down into the face of his battered detective. He bit off his own tongue?

My hand to God, Captain.

Coulter watched his investigator’s eye twitch behind its bandage. The man’s face appeared razor scarred, the emergency room’s rough stitch job nothing more than temporary relief before the many reconstructive operations to follow. One arm received antibiotics from an IV hung above the bed. Another tube drained urine into a pouch below. But it was the eye, twitching beneath its cover, that kept Coulter’s attention.

Tell it to me again, Bryce. I need to hear it again. All of it.

Undercover police detective Bryce Holt sighed deeply, his breath wet and filled with tears. Please, Captain.

Coulter’s grip tightened on the bed rail. Once more, Bryce. We’ve got to get it all while it’s still fresh in your mind. He looked across the hospital bed at the police stenographer seated on the other side. You ready?

She nodded.

Okay, Bryce. Come on. No interruptions, no questions. First we get it down. We get it right. Then we go and get them.

A fly hit the outside of the web, tangling in its sticky fibers. Legs danced and wings hummed with speed, but the fly remained trapped.

The detective took a deep breath and released it slowly. The hidden eye continued to move. "Just like you wanted, Captain, I had Rampage under surveillance for the past three weeks. Got inside. Watched them real good, you know? Watched them gather; went where they went. Saw who they hung with. Who was a friend. Who wasn’t. I didn’t miss anything, Captain. You know that. Not a thing.

I started hanging with them right off. Just bs-ing, nothing special. Then I showed them the Glock. Made up a story how I got it off a cop in the 1-9. I think that’s what got me in real close. He paused and the good eye rolled toward Coulter. "But I was careful, Captain. You know I was. Went by the book. Always by the book. Checked in daily. Remember? Only with you. No one ever noticed. No one ever saw.

Then, one afternoon, Vincent — one of the Rampage juvies — he comes for me and says tonight’s the night and I should follow him. I ask tonight’s what night and he just smiles and says I’ll see.

The female spider moved quickly along the strands, knowing where to step to avoid the traps. She glided smoothly toward the fly, standing aside, as if taking pleasure in his futile struggles.

"We get to Sylvania Heights — the elementary school on 16th — and the whole gang’s