The Witch's Orchard

by Archer Sullivan

Despite cell towers and spreading networks of broadband, mountain towns have retained a certain insular quality, hanging on to old traditions, old ways of speaking, old hierarchies with elders at the top.

But all a PI can ever do is the job they’re paid to do. I’m being paid to look—as hard as I can—and whatever hidden truths come to the surface is beyond my control.

I slip the gearshift into reverse, start pulling away, watch the path and the porch and the house recede from my view. “Not a single family photo. Not one.”

“Olivia won’t talk to anyone. Olivia doesn’t talk. I guess Max failed to mention: Olivia is completely nonverbal.”

Serial killers leave trophies, tokens, evidence of their presence. No bodies were ever found, but most of the bodies of serial killer victims are still hidden, likely never to be uncovered.

Jessica was taken from this church. Olivia was taken from a picnic hosted by this church. But what about Molly? Shiloh said Max and Molly’s parents attended this church, but was that the only connection?

She half shrugs. “Well, just revivals and that sort of thing. They have guest preachers in sometimes who are more or less fanatical about God’s word and the literalness of it. They occasionally have big prayer meetings where they get together to pray over someone who’s sick or suffering, sort of low-key faith healing. It’s fine for my parents but just not really for me.”

Finding a corpse is never a pleasant experience. But the corpse of a murder victim? It is something else altogether. It’s a fist closing around your heart. Oxygen burning your lungs. Blood pounding in your ears. All reminders that you are still alive while the person in front of you is dead. A sudden certainty that you continue to exist while this person remains only as a body. A memory. A victim.

He holds up a hand, and I stop. His voice is stony when he speaks. “I hired you to find Molly, and you did. Now, I want you to find who killed her. I want you to find out where she was. I want you to make sure this never happens again.”

“What if someone took Olivia all those years ago and brought her back because they realized she wasn’t suited for whatever purpose they had.”

I do not know what, precisely, “it” is. And yet I can feel it. Can feel the shape of it. The heaviness. “It,” whatever “it” is, is a thing that women know of. A thing we all carry. A decision. A gift. A burden. A chance. A mistake. A choice.

“Yes,” Susan says. “Because a mother’s grief is everlasting. That is the sound the crows scream at night. They learned it from her. It is the witch woman’s cries. Her mistakes made manifest.”

“Whoever took those girls is almost certainly still in town,” I say. “They’re almost certainly the person who shot me this morning. And, yes, I may have gotten myself too involved in this thing and I may be mostly chasing my own tail. But I have promises to keep.”

Because if I understand it right, Odette Hoyle told Susan McKinney that her brother had been abusing her. Susan tried to help her. And maybe, if that’s the case, Sheriff Kerridge helped Susan cover up at least one kidnapping.

And I realize I had been wrong. Deena had hidden those girls in this house the whole time. Right under the nose of everyone who visited, everyone who attended her Christmas parties and sang beside her piano, everyone who admired her roses and complimented her décor. Right under the nose of everyone. Including me.

“I was so sure he would take her away from me. Instead, he looked straight at her and shut the door. That’s when I knew the magic had truly worked. That’s when I knew. Later, he came to the house. He told me that Tommy Hoyle had abused his sister and that he’d seen Tommy out with Jessica and the way he’d had his hands on her … he knew. He knew he had to protect her. He knew that I should be her rightful mother. He told me that I should wait a few months, then take Jessica and leave town and never come back.”

“Dwight Hoyle,” I say. “Yes. The plumber. We exchanged pleasantries and he said he was moving his truck and I left, feeling relieved that he hadn’t looked in the backseat of my car. But, later that night, he called me. He said he knew what I’d done. He wanted money.”