Chapter Twenty-One

My name is Bill Malloy.

Late in the year 1795, disaster and tragedy strike the family which dwells on Widows' Hill. Bill Malloy, a time-traveler from the future, is in jail on the charge of witchcraft. Tormented by his helplessness, he waits to learn if Barnabas Collins will live or die. As he waits, he listens for the sound of howling dogs—a sound that may foretell the dawn of a new horror.

Bill did not hear the howling again that night. But he heard other things.

An hour or so after the last howls, a new commotion started. Bill's Grandmother Malloy would have described it as "alarums and excursions in the night." Bill got up from the cot and went over to his cell's window, trying to decipher what he heard.

Outside, men were shouting. He heard an occasional barking dog, apparently from the same direction and the same distance away as the men. It sounded like a party of men and dogs was out hunting. But if this was a hunting party, they were hunting something in town. The calls and the barking drew closer until they stormed into the jail building itself. Bill heard running footsteps downstairs and one man shouting out orders.

The noise moved rapidly back into the night. As the yelling and barking receded again, Bill paced to the door of his cell and called, "Hello, Mr. Prescott? You still out there?"

The old deputy called back, "I'll be with you shortly." Moments later he appeared in the corridor, carrying with him a chair from the meeting room. He deposited the chair outside Bill's cell and sank deflatedly onto it. Warily studying him, Bill sat on the edge of his cot.

Deputy Prescott looked terrible. Bill guessed the hallway's dim lamplight didn't do the old guy any favors, with the spooky-looking shadows it cast on Prescott's weathered face. But Bill still thought the deputy looked older than he had just an hour ago. Trouble and fear seemed to be weighing him down.

Bill asked, "What's going on?"

"It's bad," Prescott muttered, staring down at his hands. "It's very bad."

After a respectful pause, Bill prodded him, "What's bad?"

"There's something out there. Maybe it is a wolf, like you and I were talking about—though it all seems odd. But there's something … Eben Bell found his daughter lying insensible, outside in the yard behind their house. There's some kind of wound in her neck. The constable's got a posse together, to go after—whatever it is. They were here just now, collecting more weapons. I guess that's why all the dogs were howling earlier, because the wolf was in town. But there's a whole lot about it doesn't seem to make any sense. Why didn't the wolf just make off with some animal, instead of attacking Felicity Bell? That's what always used to happen, when there were more wolves hereabouts. They'd make a raid on somebody's livestock on the outskirts of town—not come all the way into town and attack a person, instead."

Bill Malloy felt sick to his stomach. He murmured, "Felicity Bell? Seems like I've heard that name recently."

"Aye, you have, if you've spent any time around Josiah Haskell. Joe and Miss Bell are betrothed. He talks about nothing else. They're all set to marry on New Year's Day. I saw Joe just now with the posse. The look on his face …" The old man shook his head. "What he must be going through doesn't bear thinking about."

Bill grimaced at that. "You're right. It doesn't. How badly is Miss Bell hurt?"

"All I know is she was still alive, last I heard."

"That's something, at least," Bill muttered. In sudden helpless anger, he slammed one fist into the other hand and said, "Damn it. I wish I could be out there, helping with the search."

"Believe me, Mr. Malloy," answered Deputy Prescott, "I wish you could be, too."

Bill thought, This isn't right! It shouldn't be happening again!

Of course, he reminded himself, it wasn't actually "again." But who cared about that? It shouldn't happen to Maggie Evans and Joe Haskell in 1967, and it shouldn't happen to Felicity Bell and Josiah Haskell now.

It occurred to Bill that he ought to share his knowledge of the attacks in 1967. Although he wasn't sure his knowledge would do anyone much good. The law and the citizenry of 1967 Collinsport weren't having very danged much luck stopping the attacks and bringing their perpetrator or perpetrators to justice.

But he said, "Look, I know the constable's busy now, hunting for this thing. But when he gets back here, when the immediate crisis is over, would you ask him to come see me? There were some attacks that seem similar to this, in my home town. I'd like to tell Mr. Hemphill what I know about them, in case it's any help."

Prescott promised to pass the word along to Hemphill, and made his dispirited departure. Bill was left with his miserable, helpless thoughts.

He thought about Deputy Josiah Haskell, on the day he and Bill investigated burying grounds together on the trail of the skull-in-a-box. He remembered the young man's soaring happiness when he talked of Felicity Bell: of the poetry she wrote, the music she composed, how the sunbeams gleamed in her hair, the plans they had, the money he had saved for when they would start their new life together.

Bill thought of his own Joe Haskell. He thought of the anguish that swirled around Joe and the Evans household when Maggie lay delirious with those weird puncture wounds in her neck. He thought of the torment Joe and Sam went through when Maggie Evans disappeared.

Of course, Bill reminded himself, that story supposedly had a happy ending. Maggie was home again, safe and more-or-less sound, though her memory was still a blank for those weeks when she had been missing. And Sheriff Patterson's sting operation exposed Willie Loomis as Maggie's insane abductor. Now that Loomis was safely locked away in the funny farm, the whole nightmare should be over.

But every now and then, the dogs still howled in the night. Every now and then, a farmer would still find the body of a calf or a sheep or a dog, drained of all its blood.

Constable Hemphill came to Bill's cell shortly after dawn. Bill had been drifting in half-sleep, but he snapped fully awake as soon as Hemphill walked into the hallway.

Stephen Hemphill looked like the cat had dragged him in and had mauled him a bit in the process. His hair stuck out every which way. Mud caked his boots and his britches. On his face was exhaustion from his sleepless night, and the frustrated emptiness of defeat.

Hemphill let himself into Bill's cell. He plunked down to sit beside Bill on the edge of the cot.

The constable did not seem inclined to start the conversation. Bill did it for him. "You didn't find whatever-this-is."

"No," Hemphill assented heavily. "We didn't find it."

Bill asked, "How's Felicity Bell doing?"

"She is alive, thank God. I spoke with Dr. Gaffney concerning her just a few minutes ago. Gaffney is cautiously hopeful." Constable Hemphill tilted his head to one side, pondering. "I—I am certain I should not speak of this. If word of it spreads through the town, it will engender worse panic than we are facing already. But I feel I can trust you not to indulge in idle talk. And," he added, with the ghost of a smile, "it helps that you are locked up. The selection of persons with whom you might gossip is limited."

Bill managed an answering minimal smile. "I don't like gossip," he said. "Plus I guess it doesn't hurt that I'm locked up."

Stephen sighed. "Very well, then. I will tell you. Just now Dr. Gaffney told me one very strange thing about Miss Bell's wound. He said that it seems identical to a wound he examined on the neck of Barnabas Collins."

"What!" Bill exclaimed. He turned to stare at Stephen Hemphill. "You mean Barnabas isn't sick after all? He's wounded instead?"

Hemphill gave a helpless shrug. "As I understand it, he is ill, but the illness seems traceable to his wound. But the strangest thing … the strangest thing is what Dr. Gaffney told me of how Mr. Collins claims to have come by this wound. According to the people of his household, Barnabas Collins stated in delirium that he was attacked by a bat."

"A bat," Bill repeated. He looked blankly at Hemphill. "A bat?"

The constable eloquently grimaced. "That was my reaction, as well. If, somehow, Mr. Collins' wound and that of Miss Bell were both caused by bats, then it makes a mockery of the way all the able-bodied men of the town spent last night. We were looking for a beast of the ground, not of the sky."

"But it doesn't make any sense!" protested Bill. "Bats don't attack people. That only happens in—in novels," he finished lamely, yet again just managing to stop himself from saying "movies." He went on again in impatience, "Look, have you seen Miss Bell's wound?"

"No, I have not. But Dr. Gaffney described it to me. He said that both her wound and that of Mr. Collins consist of two punctures, perhaps about an inch apart."

Bill's guts felt cold at the sound of that. He persisted, "How big are these punctures?"

"Dr. Gaffney said they seem consistent with the fangs of a large dog. Or, of course, a wolf."

Ay-yuh, thought Bill. And they're also exactly consistent with the wound Maggie Evans had on her neck, just before she disappeared.

Bill said, "I don't think there's a bat in the world with teeth that big. Maybe Barnabas' statement was just his delirium talking, and we're back to it being a dog or a wolf."

"Yes," said Hemphill. "I hope we are. Such a beast should be less elusive than a bat, and easier for people to barricade their homes against."

Bat or no bat, Bill still had to tell Hemphill about the attacks in 1967. He began, "The reason I asked Mr. Prescott to have you come talk with me … I've seen a situation like this before. Or a situation that started like this one, anyway. I'm hoping if I tell you what we've been going through in 1967, it'll help you decide what to do now."

Hemphill gave a bemused smile. "It still seems very odd to hear you speak of events that will occur nearly 200 years from now. But, please, tell me."

Bill mentally grimaced. Then he launched into the story. "It started early in summer. It started out just like what happened last night. One night we heard a lot of dogs howling. Then, I think it was the next night when a young woman was attacked. If I'm remembering right, she was walking into town when some man jumped her from behind. She fought back and made enough noise that she was able to scare him away. Unfortunately, she never got a clear sight of him, so she couldn't identify him to the police. The same thing happened again, a night or two after that. Another girl was walking into town; some guy grabbed her from behind and she fought him off. That girl wasn't able to identify her attacker, either.

"All those nights," Bill went on, "we kept on hearing the dogs howling. And something else started around that same time. I'm not sure exactly when, but on one of those first nights, a farmer whose place is a little ways out of town had one of his calves go missing. When they found the poor thing, it was dead. The vet—I mean, the animal-doctor," he added, not certain if the word "veterinarian" was in use yet, "said the calf had been drained of blood."

Constable Hemphill stared at him. "Drained of blood? I take it you do not mean that someone slaughtered it and hung it up to drain."

"Nope," Bill sighed. "I don't. As far as I know, it was just lying out in a field. From what I heard, it had a wound that sounds a lot like how you just described Felicity Bell's wound. And when the veterinarian examined that calf, he said it was completely drained. There was just no blood anywhere inside its body."

Hemphill murmured, "How can that be possible?"

"I don't know. And it gets worse. A few nights after it all started, a young woman of the village went missing. Later that night, searchers found her wandering around Eagle Hill Cemetery. She didn't know how she'd gotten there, and she had that same kind of wound on her throat. Two punctures about an inch apart."

Bill paused, wondering how much of the story he should skip. He didn't figure knowledge of 20th-century blood transfusions would help with the constable's current problems. "This girl who'd gone missing, Maggie Evans—it seems like maybe she was in the same sort of state Barnabas has been in. She was delirious and weak. She was so weak, a nurse even thought that she'd died. But when the nurse went to get the doctor—Maggie Evans disappeared."

Stephen Hemphill asked the obvious question. "What do you mean, 'disappeared?'"

"Just that. She just wasn't there, even though we all thought she was too weak to get out of bed. The window was open, but it didn't seem possible for her to get out that way on her own. All we could figure was that somebody abducted her."

"And then?" Hemphill urged. "I trust that is not the end of the story?"

"No. Thank God for that. A month or so later, Maggie turned up again. She seemed completely fine, except that once again her memory was gone. She had no idea where she'd been or what had happened to her. A while after that, the sheriff set a trap to try and catch Maggie's abductor. One guy fell into the trap: a sort of village idiot with a bad reputation around town."

He knew that description wasn't quite fair to Willie Loomis. But he doubted Hemphill needed to know the psychological details. "Most folks were happy to believe Willie Loomis was guilty. So was I. But … after Loomis got locked up in an asylum, that should have been the end of it. It wasn't. Every now and then, still, there's a night when we hear the dogs howling. And every couple of weeks or so, some farmer finds an animal drained of blood."

"But there haven't been any more attacks on the townspeople?"

"No. At least not as far as I know. There weren't any more by the time I … left to come here."

"All right, then," said Hemphill, with a distracted frown. "So let me see if I have comprehended all of this. There are the dogs howling, the animals drained of blood, the attacks on women, the abduction of Maggie Evans, the wound on her throat, and the possible involvement of this man Loomis. Thus the question becomes, how do all of these aspects connect to each other?"

"Ay-yuh," agreed Bill. "That's about the size of it."

"I suppose…" the constable thought aloud, "I suppose it is possible that this Loomis is behind the attacks, and that he has a dog which is also involved. He could cause his dog to bite the animals and then, for whatever twisted purpose, Loomis could drain them of their blood. He could have made his dog bite Maggie Evans. If the dog is still on the loose, now that its master has been locked up, that could explain why the attacks still go on, and why the howling dogs still are heard…"

Bill nodded. "That's pretty much the answer our sheriff came up with," he said. "Trouble is, it doesn't explain how the animals are still getting drained of blood, now that Willie Loomis is locked up."

"Ah," admitted Hemphill. "You are right; it does not. It also does not explain how we, in 1795, come to be facing apparently the same menace as you face in 1967."

Stephen Hemphill cast Bill a long, unhappy look. He said, "I truly hate to say this. But I feel compelled to point out that one element in common which links the attacks in your time with what happened here last night—is you."

Well, crap, thought Bill Malloy. He held Hemphill's gaze. "You think I'm responsible for the attacks?" Bill asked him steadily.

"No," answered Hemphill. "In point of fact, I do not. But I know there are others who will, if they hear the story you've just told me. The Reverend Trask, for one. He will assuredly claim this tale as proof of your devilry. He will say that, through witchcraft, you wrought these atrocities in your own time, and that now you have come to us to continue your evil work here."

"Yeah," sighed Bill. "And I guess it doesn't let me off the hook that I was locked up in here when everything happened last night?"

The constable gave a shrug. "Not as far as Trask is concerned. If you worked these horrors by your sorcery, you could do that from inside this jail as well as from anywhere else."

"So what you're saying is, I'm screwed," Bill muttered. "What else is new?" He shook his head. "Never mind Trask's accusations for now. At least there may be something you can do to stop more folks getting hurt. Assuming what's happening now is the same as what's happening in 1967, other people and animals are going to be attacked. All the attacks in my time have happened at night. So, you can institute a curfew. Try to keep everyone from going outside at night, and get them to move their animals indoors. Maybe you can stop this thing from hurting anyone else."

Hemphill nodded without enthusiasm. "I can make the attempt. Some people will never obey a curfew, no matter what the penalties and risks involved. But I suppose if such persons break the curfew and end up with punctures in their throats, then that is their own lookout."

Bill ruefully scratched his cheek. He had just realized, "I haven't even thought to ask how Barnabas is doing. What's the latest you've heard of him?"

"Good news, I trust," was Hemphill's puzzled-sounding reply. "Although it does seem rather odd. Last night during the search, Dr. Gaffney told me he'd received word yesterday from Joshua Collins not to come to Collins House. Mr. Collins' letter told him that Barnabas is greatly improved and the doctor's presence was not required."

"Really?" said Bill, surprised. "Well … that's good, I guess. In fact, it could be a big help. If Barnabas is that much better, you can go up there and talk with him. Maybe you can find out the truth behind that bat story of his. See if he sticks by the bat claim when he isn't delirious. If he doesn't, maybe we'll hit the jackpot and he can describe the dog that attacked him—or whatever."

"Yes," said the constable, suddenly purposeful once again. "That is a very good idea." He briskly got to his feet. "I will go up there now. Is there anything I can do for you, before I leave?"

A concept had been percolating in Bill's mind while the conversation went on. He decided to try that concept out. "There is," Bill said. "You can send word to Reverend Trask that I want to meet with him."

"Trask!" exclaimed Hemphill. He looked far from pleased. "Bill, what madness are you planning?"

"It's not madness," said Bill. "At least, I don't think it is."

"You're not going to tell him this story you've told me? Or … offer to confess to witchcraft if he'll let Miss Wick go?"

"Nope," Bill answered. "Nothing that dramatic." He stood up and explained, "We've still got the problem that most of the Collinses may be about to die. Right now, it seems like Trask has the most influence with the folks who decide things up there on the hill. So that means he's the one I should convince to get the women out of here and save their lives."

Stephen Hemphill eyed him in skepticism. Hemphill declared, "I find I truly do not understand you. There are times when you seem fully rational. And other times, you seem to have not the slightest notion of how the world works! What makes you believe that anything you say could move Reverend Trask? Whatever you tell him, he will twist it to his purposes and make it appear as yet more proof of your witchcraft."

"I know," admitted Bill, sighing. "But I don't think I've got much choice. I'm not going to let that family die without doing everything I can to stop it. Maybe there's a chance I can convince Trask that even witches can do a good deed or two."

Hemphill gave a quiet snort. "Maybe. And maybe there's a chance I'll wake up and discover all of this was just a dream." He shook his head and gave another pronouncement on Bill's character. "I believe you are either a saint or a madman. Or, probably, both."

"Great," Bill muttered. "And saints and madman both usually come to sticky ends. Will you take my message to Trask?"

"I'll take it to him," the constable conceded. "For all the good it will do."

Bill spent much of that morning pacing. His emotions veered between worry over Felicity Bell and whatever happened last night, and relief over Barnabas Collins' improved condition. Maybe, he kept telling himself, maybe with Barnabas recovered they would finally learn what was really going on.

An hour or so after Hemphill's departure, Peter Bradford came hurrying into the corridor. The young man promised he would visit Bill later that day to consult on his case. For now, he said rather nervously, he felt that he should visit Miss Wick.

"She must be frightened," Bradford said, "after the disturbances of last night. I can hopefully allay some of her fears. If I tell her how we of the posse tramped through every cranny and nook of town, it should assure her that this beast is not still within Collinsport. I believe I can also give her good news of Miss Bell's condition. I called at the Bell house just now. Mr. Bell told me his daughter is sleeping peacefully, and the doctor is very hopeful."

"That's good," Bill said. He watched with bemusement as young Bradford made his flustered-seeming way down the hall towards Phyllis Wick's cell.

Grinning a little to himself, Bill thought, Well, I'll be.

I do believe our Miss Wick has an admirer.

It made sense, he supposed. Phyllis Wick was an attractive young lady. And Peter Bradford seemed like the type who would be particularly susceptible to the charms of a damsel in distress.

Constable Hemphill apparently reached the same conclusion. On his return to the jail, he told Bill he would report to him shortly. He then asked if Bill had seen Mr. Bradford. When Bill told him Bradford's whereabouts, Hemphill rolled his eyes and remarked, "I might have known."

A few minutes later, both Hemphill and Bradford were back outside Bill's cell. Bill thought there was a decidedly star-struck look on Bradford's face. To Bill's inquiry on how Miss Wick was doing, the young man answered with enthusiasm, "She is bearing up very well. She is a lady of remarkable fortitude. I think there are few who could endure what she is going through with such courage and grace."

"I'm sure," Constable Hemphill said dryly. "Now, don't you have some reading to do? I know you came back from Judge Matigan's with a sackful of borrowed law books."

Bradford grinned bashfully and made himself scarce. Hemphill and Bill shared a humorous look.

"I shall have to keep an eye on that," the constable remarked. "Not that I believe Mr. Bradford would take liberties, and Miss Wick doesn't seem the type to commit any impropriety. But I can't have the appearance of improper behavior in my jail. And Mr. Bradford isn't on the town's payroll so that he can make cow eyes at one of the prisoners."

"Forget Mr. Bradford's cow eyes," Bill said impatiently. "What did you learn up the hill?"

Standing outside Bill's cell, Hemphill crossed his arms on his chest and gave a puzzled scowl. "Nowhere near as much as I had hoped. You remember how I joked that this may be a dream from which I'll soon wake? It is starting to feel more and more like a dream. Event follows event, but they do not seem to fit together. And viewed all of them together, they make no sense at all!"

"I know the feeling," Bill told him. "What isn't making sense now?"

"Barnabas Collins," answered Hemphill. "I wasn't able to speak with him. Apparently he isn't there. Apparently, he set out yesterday on a voyage to England."

Bill stared.

"England?" burst out Bill. "How could he have left for England? For crying out loud, the guy was just at death's door!"

"I know," Hemphill said helplessly. "That is more-or-less what I said when Mr. Riggs told me." The constable shook his head and went on with his story. "I could get no one to answer the door at Collins House, so I went on up to the new house. There Mr. Riggs informed me that on Sunday night, Barnabas Collins made a dramatic recovery from his illness. Yesterday morning Barnabas declared himself unwilling to remain any longer near the scene of his uncle Jeremiah's death. He made up his mind to journey to England. Apparently, no urgings by his family could induce him to stay here until his health is more certain. Yesterday afternoon he started forth—not yet even twenty-four hours after everyone had despaired for his life!"

"He's crazy," muttered Bill. "And the rest of them were crazy, to let him go." He added, "Joshua Collins was happy enough to lock me up in his cellar. He should have locked up his son until someone could talk some sense into him!"

The more Bill thought about it, the fishier it all seemed. Sure, he could see that Barnabas might want to flee his guilt and grief over Jeremiah's death. But he wouldn't just run away from everything else.

He wouldn't run from his suspicion that the woman he'd married was a witch. And Bill couldn't believe he would run away when the fates of his sister, his mother and his former fiancée all hung in the balance.

Maybe he didn't leave on his own accord, Bill thought. Maybe somebody bewitched him into leaving.

He asked Hemphill, "Did Barnabas' wife go with him?"

"No," came the exasperated answer. "Apparently not. Mr. Riggs was surprised when I told him no one had answered the door for me at Collins House. He told me Mrs. Barnabas Collins should be there. He and I went back to Collins House to look for her, but we could find no trace. She does not appear to have departed on a voyage. Her clothing and luggage were still in the chamber that Mr. Riggs told me was hers. But although the bed was turned down, ready for an occupant, there was no sign that anyone had slept in it last night."

More and more, Barnabas disliked the sound of this. He asked, "Did you search for her anywhere else? Out in the woods, for example?"

"No," said Hemphill, frowning. "Why? You think that something has happened to her?"

"It's the obvious conclusion, isn't it? And don't you find it worrying that she's unaccounted for on the same night when this attack happened down here in the village?"

"There's no reason to assume they're connected. We've no indication that the dog or wolf made its way up to the Collins woods."

"And we've no indication that it didn't," Bill argued. "In fact, since you couldn't find it in town, doesn't it make sense for it to head for the nearest woods?"

"The woods on the Collins estate aren't the nearest ones to the village. But," Hemphill admitted, sighing, "yes, it could have gone up there. I'll send a man up the hill later today to check on whether Mrs. Barnabas Collins has re-appeared. If she has not, then it will be time to launch a search for her. In the meantime, I am going home to see if I can seize a couple hours of sleep."

"Good luck," Bill told him. "Did you take my message to Reverend Trask?"

"I did," Hemphill told him ruefully. "He answered that he would be here to see you after a suitable period of prayer."

Constable Hemphill headed home in search of sleep, and Bill went back to his pacing. After a few minutes of it, he suddenly stopped as another grim realization hit him.

He thought he knew what had become of Mrs. Barnabas Collins.

The dog, or wolf, or whatever it was, hadn't gotten her at all. It was her husband who had gotten her, instead.

Bill thought it made total sense. When he recovered from his illness, Barnabas confronted his wife. He'd accused her of causing his uncle's death and of all his family's recent disasters, and he had killed her.

That explained why he had left for England so suddenly. He was running away from the murder of his wife. It would also explain why he had assumed it was safe to leave Collinsport without waiting to see if the other women of his family survived this year. Barnabas believed that by killing Angelique, he had prevented the deaths of Sarah, Naomi, Josette and Abigail.

Well, Bill thought, I'm not going to bet their lives on that theory. Even if Angelique is dead, and even if she has been the cause of all their troubles, there's no guarantee that her death will make the rest of the trouble stop.

The Reverend Trask's "suitable period of prayer" was apparently a lengthy one. It was mid-afternoon by the time Trask arrived at the jail. Peter Bradford, with a few muttered comments about the reverend's fanatical view of justice, came to escort Bill into the meeting room for his conference with the witch hunter.

Trask, it turned out, had not come to the meeting alone. He had brought his admirers with him: Abigail Collins and the Countess Natalie du Prés. The two ladies sat perched on the bench along the wall, while Trask stood in front of them. Doubtless, Bill thought, he had been delivering a mini-sermon. When the door opened, Trask turned swiftly to face Bill. The reverend gave his vindictive, thin-lipped smirk.

"So, Mr. Malloy," Trask greeted him, steepling his hands in their familiar prayerful gesture. "You have seen the light? You wish to return your steps to the path of righteousness?"

"Sorry, reverend," Bill said flatly. "I don't want to return to the path of righteousness, because I never left it."

"Ah," Trask said in regretful tones. "Then you persist in your obdurate ways. But there is yet hope," he went on, to the two women. "We may yet witness the blessed miracle of a tool of Beelzebub returning to the ways of Our Lord."

Dressed all in black as the three of them were, they gave Bill the impression that he was being watched by three crows. And, he thought, it looked like those crows believed he would be nice to nibble on. Although to be fair, the countess seemed less interested in nibbling on him than did the other two of them. She seemed to be forcing herself to meet Bill's gaze. He thought her expression was a combination of defiance and embarrassment.

"Reverend," sighed Bill, "The miracle would be if you stopped preaching long enough to listen to what people are saying to you. I'm sorry to get your hopes up, but I didn't call you here so I could confess to being a warlock. I'm not a warlock, I've never been a warlock, and I wouldn't know how to commit an act of witchcraft if I tried." And, his thoughts added, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the Communist party.

Trask made his voice wooingly persuasive. "You poor, benighted soul. Why do you persist on the course of your own destruction? You know that the Word of the Lord tells us, 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' Surely you must also know that 'The wages of sin is death.' Why do you not free yourself from this doom? Why will you not return to the embrace of the God of love and forgiveness? Rid your soul of its crimes, man! Confess the sins you have committed and take your stand with us, in the ranks of those who fight against evil!"

Nothing doing, thought Bill. I've seen The Crucible; I know how this scene turns out.

He figured he could make his point clearly enough without needing to specifically reference Arthur Miller's play. "Reverend Trask," he said, "I know what you're trying to do, but it won't work. It can't work, because I'm not a warlock. You want me to confess to witchcraft in order to save my life. Suppose I do? Then you'll want me to accuse a whole bunch of other folks who I supposedly saw with the Devil. But I can't do that, because I'm not a warlock and I've never seen anybody with the Devil! Now, I could give you a list of names just to save myself. I could pick out some lowlifes who I think won't be any loss to society, and who I figure you'd be happy to believe are witches. Or I could give you the names of some people I don't like, to take out my grudges on them by accusing them of witchcraft. But where does it all stop? If every person who's accused makes a false confession to save themselves, and if each one of them accuses more people, pretty soon we'll have a whole town of alleged witches, with everybody falsely accusing everybody else!"

"Have you finished, sir?" Trask inquired.

"Sure, I'm finished. For now."

"What you describe could indeed take place," Trask said, "if we lacked divine guidance in discerning between such false confessions and the truth. But Heaven be praised, the Good Lord gives us his aid that we may separate the wheat from the chaff."

"Oh, yeah?" Bill asked. "How? Did God give you some kind of heavenly lie detector?"

Bill heard a little snorting sound behind him which he thought was probably Peter Bradford trying not to laugh. The countess cast a sharp glance in the young man's direction. Trask, meanwhile, said in pompous tones, "I see no need to discuss all our methods with you. It is but a foolish commander who reveals all his strategies to the enemy."

"You know," argued Bill, "we would get farther and do everybody a heck of a lot more good, if you'd consider the possibility that maybe I'm not the enemy."

Reverend Trask's eyes gleamed with the joy of combat. "I am awake to your snares, Satan," he declared. "You shall not entrap me."

Bill muttered in disgust, "Oh, for crying out loud."

"Reverend Trask," interposed the Countess du Prés, "would we not be well advised to learn why Mr. Malloy asked you to come to him?" Her voice was respectful. Still, Bill hoped the countess wasn't quite convinced that Trask was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

"Very well," the patronizing preacher replied. "We will hear him out. But both of you must keep ever watchful for the Devil's lures within his words."

Thanks a lot, thought Bill. So much for being considered innocent until proven guilty.

But, he reminded himself, as far as Reverend Trask was concerned, Bill's guilt was already proved.

Bill looked at Peter Bradford, who was standing awkwardly beside the door to the cells. "Mr. Bradford," he said, "we're agreed, aren't we, that when this comes to trial we'll tell the truth about where I'm from? That trying to hide it would do more harm than good?"

"I suppose we are," Bradford answered with reluctance. "I'm afraid I can see no better course."

"All right, then," Bill said, turning again to face Reverend Trask and his admirers. "Reverend, am I right in thinking you have a book in your possession that you plan to use as evidence? A book that was found in the study at Collinwood on the day Miss Wick and I were arrested, called The History and Genealogy of the Collins Family of Collinsport, Maine?"

Abigail Collins gave a gasp and shifted nervously on her seat. She looked up to the Reverend Trask with fear in her eyes. The countess looked questioningly at him as well, but without any visible fear.

Warily eyeing Bill, Trask attempted to give away as little as possible. "I am aware of the book."

"Are you also aware of its publication dates? Published in 1924 and revised in 1965?"

"I have seen the unholy mockery of God's natural order that is printed there."

Bill sighed, wishing the reverend didn't feel compelled to deliver a sermon every time he opened his mouth. "The whole story's going to come out in the trial, so you may as well hear it now. That book came with me when I arrived here from the future. I was born in Collinsport in the year 1911. I grew up here and I've spent most of my life here. It was November 17, 1967 when I was … transported back in time to that same date in 1795."

Abigail made a little, terrified moan. "Oh, Reverend Trask!" she breathed, clutching her handkerchief to her mouth.

The countess stared open-mouthed at Bill for an instant. Then she produced her fan from a coat pocket and commenced fanning Miss Collins.

For his part, Trask also spent a moment simply looking astonished. Recovering himself, he demanded, "You dare, sir, to claim that you are not a warlock, when you tell us with such bald-faced affrontery of this obvious act of witchcraft?"

"Maybe it is an act of witchcraft," Bill said, "but it's not my witchcraft. I didn't cause it to happen. I don't know how I was brought here or why. I've been hoping I was sent here to help the Collins family. You see, I work for the Collinses in my time, and I've married into the family. I'm hoping that if I can help the Collinses of this time, I'll be helping my own Collins family, too."

The Reverend Trask looked skeptical, to say the least. He inquired, "In what way do you believe that you can help the Collins family?"

Bill spread his hands helplessly. "I wish I knew. But one thing I know is that the book says several more members of the family will die before the end of this year. I'm asking you—all of you—to read the chapter on 1795 and do what you can to stop those deaths from happening."

"Monsieur," the Countess du Prés asked him sharply, "which members of the family are predicted to die?"

Reverend Trask thundered out a warning that made all the rest of them jump. "Do not ask him that, woman! Do not so demean yourself by trafficking with Satan!"

In reply, the countess eyed him haughtily and rose to her feet, snapping her fan shut. She then proceeded to ignore the Reverend Trask. "Monsieur Malloy," she said, "I have asked you a question and I demand an answer. Whose deaths are predicted in this book of yours?"

Bill had the strong feeling that he should tell her to read the book and find out for herself. All the same, he answered, "The family members who it says will die this year are Sarah, Mrs. Naomi Collins, Mrs. Josette Collins"—the countess gave a hissing gasp—"and Miss Abigail Collins."

At that news, Abigail sprang up and clung to Reverend Trask's arm for support. She quavered, "You heard him, reverend! He is casting a spell against me! He means to bewitch me to my death!"

"Have courage, dear lady," Trask told her, patting her hand. "The Almighty will protect you. Now that we know of his vile intentions, we can forestall them and ensure that they do not come to pass."

"Dagnabit," snapped Bill. "I don't have any 'vile intentions.' That's what I want you to do! I want you to forestall all those deaths. I want you to stop them!"

"You think we are so simple as to believe that?" Trask challenged him. "You think we do not know that this prediction of death is itself your first step in casting your spell against these people?"

"Mr. Malloy," began Peter Bradford. He tentatively put a hand on Bill's arm. "I think you should come back to your cell now. This won't do anyone any good—"

Bill shrugged the young man's hand away. "Maybe it can do someone some good. Please!" he begged his three unsympathetic hearers. "All I'm asking you to do is read that book, and try to stop the deaths from happening. The book says Sarah's going to die on her eleventh birthday. Her eleventh birthday is this Friday! It says she'll die of exposure. If you talk to Mr. and Mrs. Collins and get them to keep Sarah indoors until after Friday, maybe that can be stopped."

"You will be silent, emissary of Satan!" Reverend Trask roared. "You dare to attempt your loathsome spells in the very face of a servant of the Lord?"

Bill snarled back at him, "You want to know what I'd like to do to your face?"

This time Peter Bradford grabbed both of Bill's arms and yelled, "Come with me, Mr. Malloy! We're going back to your cell."

Bill knew the kid was right. The more he said, the bigger the hole he was digging for himself. But as Bradford tried to herd him away, Bill insisted, "Please! Just read the book and save those people's lives. Save Sarah. Save Josette. Save Mrs. Collins. Miss Collins, I even want you to save yourself."

Back in his cell, Bill thought of the last glimpse he'd had of those three faces. He thought of Trask's righteous outrage, Abigail's wide-eyed horror and the countess' pondering frown.

He hoped her pondering might prove a good sign. It might be the only hope left for Sarah, Josette, Naomi and Abigail.

Since he couldn't have the satisfaction of pummeling Reverend Trask's face, Bill decided to do his exercises instead. He went through his usual routine. At the end of it, he was still too full of nervous energy to stop. He launched into a series of jumping jacks.

Finally he had to accept that he had jumping-jacked himself out. He had no other choice but to go back to pacing.

A little before sunset, Mrs. Hemphill arrived with Bill's supper of soup and cornbread. She told him apologetically that she couldn't stay to talk. She explained, "Stephen made me promise I'd be back at the house before dark."

When she had gone, Bill found he couldn't face sitting down and eating yet. He left the bowl and plate sitting on the cot and walked over to his little, barred window. He scowled out at the darkening ruddy sky.

When it gets dark, he wondered, will the dogs start howling again?

Will whatever-it-is be out there again tonight?

He was listening so intently for the howls that he jumped in surprise when Peter Bradford returned to his cell.

"Sorry to bother you," Bradford said. "You've got a visitor again. That French countess is back."

Bill's heart leaped, though he ordered himself not to get his hopes up. Once again he followed Mr. Bradford into the meeting room.

The Countess du Prés was pacing from one end of the room to the other. She stopped at the sight of Bill and fixed him with a soul-searching stare.

"Thanks for coming back, countess," Bill said.

"I would have returned sooner," she told him nervously. "I had to conceal my intentions from Reverend Trask. Mr. Malloy … I do not know whom to believe. If Trask is right, if you are a warlock—I may have destroyed all of us by coming here to you. But, if you are telling the truth …"

"Well, you've got some guidance you can turn to on this, don't you?" Bill asked her. "What about that tarot card reading you did for me? It feels like that was years ago by now," he added, shaking his head. "But weren't there some things in the reading that could help you make up your mind?"

"Yes … perhaps." She narrowed her eyes. "Of course, if you are a warlock, then you could have manipulated the answers given by the cards."

"But what if I didn't?" Bill persisted. "Do you remember what the cards said?"

He hoped that she did. He wasn't at all sure he remembered her card-reading well enough for him to say anything useful. But now that he thought about it … Knowing everything that had happened to him since then, he thought there were some things in her tarot reading that seemed pretty spooky to him now.

The countess murmured, "The cards told me you are a man who can be trusted. I remember that the card symbolizing you was the Knight of Cups. As liquid pours forth from the cup, so do you give of yourself, freely, to the point of sacrifice. I recall that the hanged man appeared in your reading. It signifies accusations against you. And justice was there, but reversed. The cards told us that you would be judged, but that the judgment would hold no true justice."

Bill and Peter Bradford glanced dubiously at each other. Bill thought, Jeez, that makes me feel just great about our prospects in this trial.

He thought back to the card-reading, struggling to remember something else about it. "You saw some enemy," he said. "You told me one of the cards symbolized an enemy who would try to destroy me."

"Yes," she murmured. "Yes. The Knight of Swords."

Peter Bradford put in, "Could that be Reverend Trask?"

"Maybe …" Bill said. "But does it have to be a man? Do the knight cards always signify men?"

Part of his mind couldn't believe he was taking all of this seriously. But compared to full-scale witchcraft, believing in tarot card readings seemed pretty darned tame.

"Usually they do … but not always. The readings are very fluid. And at times a card may symbolize more than one thing. What is it you are thinking of, Monsieur Malloy?"

"I'm thinking about your other readings, now. The readings with the 'wicked woman' in them. You said there was a force of evil threatening the Collins household. That sure as heck turned out to be true."

"Yes," the countess said again, studying him. "That force of evil could be you. And the wicked woman could be Miss Wick."

"Could be," Bill said, looking steadily at her. "Or it could be Angelique."

The Countess du Prés gave a little, aggravated noise and turned away from him, starting to pace again. "That is what you want me to think. That is what you have always tried to make me believe …"

"I want you to accept that it's possible. I want you not to close your mind against it. Listen, countess," he argued on, "I still don't have proof against her, as such. But Barnabas told me he thought he had proof. He said he believed Angelique had used Sarah's doll against her, to cause her illness last week. I think when Barnabas left my cell after telling me that, he went to Angelique and accused her of all of it. Sarah's illness, Jeremiah and Josette eloping, Jeremiah's death. And right after he confronted her, that's when Barnabas fell ill. So who's the most likely culprit in all of this? Miss Wick and me? Or Angelique?"

She stopped pacing, staring fiercely at him. "Can I believe you, Mr. Malloy?" the countess hissed. "Can I?"

"The cards said that you can."

"You could have influenced the cards."

"Does it feel to you like I did?"

"No … no …" She flung up her hands in impatience. "Ah, I do not know! I do not know where I can turn. No matter whom or what I ask, I can trust in none of the answers."

"I know," Bill groaned. "I'm sorry. Damn it," he added suddenly, "I'm sorry Barnabas left when he did. If only he'd stayed and talked with you about all of this, maybe you wouldn't have all these questions—"

He noticed the countess giving him a very strange stare. Slowly she asked him, "You are sorry Barnabas left?"

"Yes," Bill said, wondering what she was driving at. "Why shouldn't I be sorry?" His thoughts went racing back to one of his major worries earlier in the day. "Angelique hasn't turned up, has she? And nobody's heard from her?"

"No," said the countess. She was still fixing him with a crazy look that he couldn't make head nor tail of. "As far as I know, no one has heard from her. Why do you ask that?"

Bill told himself he should keep his mouth shut. The last thing Barnabas Collins needed was for Bill to start spreading the rumor that Barnabas had murdered his own wife.

But maybe … Maybe if it had happened, that would be evidence the countess would accept. Maybe that would finally convince her that Angelique was the witch, if Barnabas killed Angelique because he had discovered her guilt.

Bill said, "I don't know that this has actually happened. It may just be me borrowing trouble, making things worse than they are. But … it seems like nobody has seen Angelique since before Barnabas left for England. I'm afraid that's why he left. I think that once he was well enough, he confronted her again. I think he wanted revenge for Jeremiah—for Josette—for himself. He wanted revenge and he wanted to stop her from hurting anyone else. I think he killed Angelique and he hid her body, and I think that's why he left. To try and get away from what he'd done."

"But … no," the countess murmured, still staring at him. "No, that cannot be. Because Angelique was seen most recently after … after …"

"After Barnabas left, you mean? Well, so much for that theory. I guess it's better for Barnabas this way—"

"No …" the Countess du Prés began again. Her gaze, as she studied Bill, seemed to grow tormented. Suddenly she seized him by both arms. "Is it possible?" she demanded. "Is it possible you do not know what has happened?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Ah, bon Dieu!" she exclaimed. "I do not know what to think—what to believe. If it is true—if you truly do not know what has happened to Barnabas …"

"What?" Bill asked her, almost yelling. "What has happened to Barnabas?"

Abruptly she turned away from him and strode over to the window. For a moment she stood clutching the bars in both hands, staring out into the dusk.

"Please," said Bill. "Please, countess, tell me."

The countess turned toward the two men in the room. Bill thought he saw tears on her face.

She said, "Barnabas Collins is dead."