Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“Please don these,” said the woman, producing a pair of white cotton gloves.

Constance pulled them on.

“No handling of any papers with bare hands, please. Pencil or computer use only — no pens. Have a seat while I retrieve the Sutter papers. They are certainly popular these days.”

She went through another door. In less than a minute she returned, holding a plastic box with plastic folders inside. She put it on the table. “Only one folder should be removed at a time. Any questions, Ms. Greene?”

Constance sensed that, once again, she was being taken for a Wiccan. She wondered whether Pendergast, were he in her position, might be able to make use of this misapprehension. Pendergast always seemed able to pitch his approach, right from the beginning, to get the best results. He was unscrupulous in seeking advantage.

She would be, too.

“I take it that quite a few people come to see these documents?” she asked.

“They are among our most sought-after.”

“Indeed? By whom?”

“Salem is a center of the Wiccan religion, as you no doubt know.” She eyed Constance’s dress. “We have quite a few practitioners come to look at the papers and copy or photograph the, ah, inscriptions.”

“The Tybane Inscriptions, you mean?”

“Yes.” The woman turned away.

“Another question, if you don’t mind.”

The woman turned back and now Constance could see a look of impatience on her face.

“Do you know much about this archaeologist, Sutter?”

“Sutter was no archaeologist. He was an amateur back at a time when archaeology barely existed as a profession. To be blunt, he was a crank.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“You’ll judge for yourself when you look at his papers.”

“You’ve been through them?”

“It’s part of my job to familiarize myself with the content of these folders. Not to cast aspersions, but you will see that Sutter was, at the very least, a fantasist.” She waved her hand. “If I had my way, those papers would go into the rubbish. Their only interest is for those studying deviant psychology. Or” — she paused significantly, once again eyeing Constance — “those of the Wiccan persuasion.”

“I see,” said Constance, returning the gaze, “that you have mistaken me for a Wiccan.”

“What you are or are not is no concern of mine.”

“I realize my dress is old-fashioned and my ways may appear odd, but that’s because...” She thought back to the receptionist at the Exmouth police station. “I am Amish.”

The woman showed surprise and embarrassment. “Oh. Very well. I didn’t mean to... in some way imply you were anything but a person seeking information. We get so many of those Wiccans in here, looking at these papers. One makes assumptions.”

“Witchcraft, the casting of spells, is an anathema in my religion. I’m here because” — here Constance did her best to choke up with emotion — “because my sister has become a Wiccan. I’m here to try to save her.”

Now the surprise turned to confusion. “I’m so sorry... But how can these papers help? I mean, Wiccans may be drawn to them out of curiosity, but as I understand it Wiccans practice white magic, not black magic. And white magic has nothing to do with what Sutter documented.”

“I’m trying to find her. I know she was here. Do you keep a record of those who come to look at these documents?”

“We keep records, of course, but... they’re confidential.”

At this Constance bowed her head and let a faint emotive noise escape her lips. “I understand. The rules must be followed. It’s just that — I don’t want to lose my sister to this... this Wiccan religion.”

A long silence. “Well, I think we can make an exception. Let me get the files in my office.”

As she left, Constance kept her head bowed for a moment, allowing a small smile to vanish from her face. The displeasure she felt at feigning an emotion she would never, in real life, reveal to another human being was overshadowed by successfully confounding this disapproving, opinionated woman. Face composed, she raised it once again, drew the plastic file toward her, and removed the first folder, labeled “New Salem.”

Inside were several yellowing paper documents. She laid the first on the baize and opened it gingerly. It consisted of perhaps a dozen pages, all covered with an elaborate spidery script.

Fellow of the Learned Society of Antiquaries of Boston, Discoverer of the Ostracon of Sinuhe

Author of Fasciculus Chemicus, and Keys of Mercy and Secrets of Wisdom.

On the third day of July 1871, I, Jeduthan Sutter, Esquire, after many weeks searching the Exmouth Marsh Lands, discovered the Witches’ Settlement of New Salem in a Desert Location far from Habitation. I Elucidated the Arrangement of the Quincunx, which indicated the Ceremonial Altar of the Village where the Witchcraft Rituals and Abominations were Consummated. Wherefor, having Located the Central Altar I dug down and Recovered the Stone that was the Blasphemous Object of Worship, which contain these Devilish Revelations and Abominations. This I did with a Wise Purpose, according to the Workings of the Spirit of the Lord, who Knoweth all things, as a Warning to All. And now I, Jeduthan Sutter, prior to destroying the Foul Stone of New Salem, so that the Evil embodied in its essence, and which hath moved on from this place to Another, can no longer Harm the World, do first Finish Out the Inscriptions found on said Stone, recording for Posterity those Inscriptions as in Life, made according to the Knowledge and Understanding of the Lord God, who giveth me His Protection from the Evil they contain.

A quincunx. Constance was aware of that peculiar arrangement, as in the array of pips on the number five on a set of dice. The quincunx, she knew from her reading, had a mystical meaning to many religions.

She turned her attention to the next document: an oversize double-quarto sheet of paper, folded. With care she unfolded it and found a finely drawn outline of what could only have been the Tybane Stone, apparently life-size, with its inscriptions — the same five symbols she had seen carved into the body of the historian, Mr. McCool.

She took out her cell phone and began taking pictures, near and far, with and without flash, working swiftly. When she was done, she went through the rest of the papers but found little more of interest — no indication where the settlement had been found, for example, or why Sutter was looking for it in the first place. Instead, the papers consisted of numerous quotations from scripture and other religious ramblings. Sutter, as the archivist had observed, had certainly been a crank. But even cranks make interesting discoveries.

Mrs. Jobe returned with a piece of paper. “This is a list of our visitors, going back six months. We also have a security camera, concealed in that EXIT sign. It’s confidential, of course — we don’t speak of it to visitors.”

“Thank you so much,” Constance said, taking the list. “I’ll have to look this over later. First, I must decipher these inscriptions.”

“If it’s any consolation,” said the archivist, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the inscriptions are gibberish. Poppycock. As I said, Sutter was a fantasist.”

“Do you have other files on witchcraft that might help me understand these symbols — or determine if they’re a sham?”

“We have transcriptions of all the Salem witch trials — on microfiche, because the originals are too fragile — as well as a fine collection of rare books on witchcraft and demonology in what we call the Cage. But I’m not sure how that will help you find your sister.”