Sproot realized she looked ridiculous, maybe even dangerous. Here she was, having parked her car two blocks away, strolling down Sumac Street at two thirty-two a.m. in the middle of a violent thunderstorm with a gas mask clamped to her face, and wearing work gloves, a wide-brimmed, moisture-repelling safari hat, and a lime-green, billowing rain slicker. She carried a hatchet and a tomahawk, both unsheathed and honed to razor-edged sharpness, in her right hand. What else could she do? There was a job to be done, and it had to be done now. There was no point pussyfooting around about it anymore. That idiot Abelard had failed miserably. She should have known it, as he was from Mort’s feckless side of the family. As for Edith, she had gotten word to Dr. Sproot via an anonymous, whispered phone message that she would make her spell-casting foray into the Fremonts’ backyard sometime late at night, preferably when the weather was unsettled and therefore more favorable for the casting of spells.
