The Witching Tree by Alice Blanchard

Author:Alice Blanchard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

30

Outside, Natalie’s phone buzzed in her coat pocket.

“I found the Hosts,” Jules Pastor told her. “Believe it or not, they’re still in town, staying with this girl I know on the west side. It’s an old farmhouse, looks abandoned. She thinks it’s haunted.”

“What’s this girl’s name?”

“Topaz Revelli. Just to warn you, her boyfriend is the ultimate hustler, Nyle Hockney. Once a week or so, it depends, you’ll find him at one of his chosen locations … cash transactions only. He’ll show up dragging around a trash bag full of stolen goods or dex or what have you, like an anorexic Santa Claus. Topaz inherited her grandfather’s run-down farm last year, and he crashes there sometimes. He’s been known to carry. Let me give you the address.”

The west side of town reeked of marijuana and boredom. There was never anything going on unless you created it. Many of the pot farms had gotten busted in the past couple of years, but there were still a few cannabis gardens lingering undetected out this way—tucked-away homes owned by paranoid men with guns, their basements fitted with hydroponic systems and LED lights.

There were neighborhoods on the west side where people knew Natalie from her police officer days, back when she walked a beat before joining the CIU. She could go into certain parts of town where she knew the families, and people would tell her things. She learned that if you approached them without an agenda, they’d open up and talk to you. The west side, despite its problems, was a point of pride. It was home—this was where they’d grown up and raised their kids and gone to school and made lifelong bonds. Poverty and drugs had merely complicated their lives.

She crested the top of a hill and descended a series of switchback curves through dense woods of wintergreen and birch. After ten minutes, she drove into a valley where the land flattened out and the old orchards flourished. She dug her shield out of the glove compartment and slung it around her neck as she drove past snowy fields where cattle grazed in the warmer months. Now they huddled together near the barns.

Natalie found the old Revelli farmstead and got out. There were two pickup trucks parked in the driveway—one silver, one red—and she called in their license plates. One of the trucks belonged to Topaz Revelli, and the other was registered to Edward Host.

Natalie unbuttoned her coat and unfastened the safety strap of her shoulder holster, just in case. Beneath the layers of winter clothing, despite the shivery cold air, her body grew clammy and damp.

There were several rusty hulks of rotting cars in the yard, weeds growing through the broken windshields. Nobody answered the door. She waited on the porch. She checked her watch. Almost four o’clock.

Natalie knocked again. “Open up. It’s the police.”

Finally, a young woman opened the door. Her face was shiny and moist, pale strands of hair sticking to her forehead. She stood on the threshold, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon.

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