Black Magic Woman (7 page)

"And you can bet your bottom drachma that the take wouldn't be nearly so much if it weren't for that spiritual dog and pony show that Reverend Tommy puts on every time," Susan went on. "I don't know why he doesn't just call himself 'The Amazing Crisco' and start working Las Vegas, except there's probably a lot more money to be made by claiming that your feats of clairvoyance are courtesy of the Lord Almighty—and, by the way, have you heard a single word I said since we got here?"

Libby looked up from her coffee cup and with a tight little smile said, "I know how he's doing it."

"But the two of them have no contact in between her chatting up the audience and the start of the service," Susan whispered. "I mean, she doesn't even leave the stage until Tommy comes out to do his thing."

"Yes, and I'm sure that's deliberate. Otherwise, even these people, who want so desperately to believe, would start to smell a rat. But there are lots of ways to communicate these days, kiddo, and not all of them involve messages from the Almighty." She reached into her purse and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth and bound with two slim ribbons— one green, the other blue.

"What on earth is that?" Susan asked.

"Something I prepared earlier this evening. It's been imbued with a spell for causing the hidden to be revealed. The spell is usually employed for treasure finding, that sort of thing, but I think it'll work very well for what I have in mind."

"I was kind of hoping you'd just wave your wand and change the Reverend Tommy into a toad, or something."

"If I did that, always assuming I could, all it would do is create sympathy for him. Winona would probably have these poor people bringing in flies every week to feed him." She gently patted the bundle in her lap. "This is better, trust me."

"If you say so. You're the expert."

"Were you able to get some media people to show up?"

Susan nodded. "The religion editor for the
New York Times
is here somewhere, and I also managed to interest a guy from the
Post.
He's sitting about six rows behind us. A woman I know at WPIX-TV wasn't sure she could make it, but promised to try."

"All right, good. Combined with the people who are actually in the audience, that should be—oh, look, Winona's getting ready to start."

The pattern of the service was the same. Winona Timberlake made a few pious-sounding remarks, introduced the Reverend Tommy, and then unobtrusively disappeared from the stage. The Reverend dispensed platitudes for a while, then once again begin noisily receiving divine inspiration concerning members of the audience and their various problems.

He had been going on for about five minutes when Libby leaned over toward Susan and said softly, "I guess this is as good a time as any." She carefully undid the two ribbons around the object in her lap, muttering in a language that Susan didn't recognize. The cloth wrapping parted to reveal a small collection of twigs. They were about six inches long and appeared to be coated with some kind of light blue powder.

Libby grasped the bunch of twigs in both hands, said something else in that foreign tongue, and repeated it twice more. Then, with a sharp motion of her wrists, she suddenly broke the twigs in two.

The microphone around Reverend Tommy's neck instantly lost power, but the theater speakers did not fall silent. Instead, they began to broadcast a different voice, one that sounded very much like Winona Timberlake's.

"Move stage right a little bit," the woman's voice said. "There's an old geezer from New Hampshire whose daughter's been diagnosed with AIDS, the little tramp. His first name's Martin, by the way…"

For a couple of seconds, the Reverend Tommy seemed unaware that the audience had stopped hearing his voice and begun to listen to another's. But then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Instead of looking like a man in the middle of a migraine, he quickly came to resemble someone having a massive coronary. He frantically began to tap his microphone, then looked off-stage and snarled to someone, "Turn this goddamn thing back on!" But the mike remained silent, and the Reverend Tommy's unamplified voice was soon drowned out by the angry murmuring from the audience that soon grew into shouts, catcalls, and boos.

Meanwhile, Winona Timberlake went on and on: "Now you want a woman named Catherine, some fat cow from Wisconsin, who's been having a lot of trouble with high blood pressure, surprise, surprise. See if you can pray about fifty pounds off her…"

"But how did you figure out how he and Winona were using a radio transmitter? Some sort of mystical divination?"

Libby snorted. "More like common sense, honey," she said. "He had to be getting the information from Winona—who must have a remarkable memory, to go along with that nasty mouth of hers. And since she clearly didn't talk to him before he came on stage, she had to be feeding him the stuff while he was actually up there. They make radio receivers the size of a shirt button these days, and he certainly had one in his ear. I couldn't see it, but then I didn't need to—uh, driver, this is my building coming up, on the corner."

Five minutes later, Libby Chastain, was unlocking the door to her condominium. As she went around turning on the lights, she was humming softly—a tune that the Reverend Tommy Timberlake would have recognized as "Rock of Ages".

Then the phone started ringing.

"I bet you say that to all the boys, Libby."

The woman chuckled. "Yes, I do, Quincey, and to the girls, too. Helps create that aura of mystery, you know."

"I've always found you eminently mysterious," Morris said. "So, how's business?"

"Well, I just got home from an interesting gig that a certain preacher and his wife aren't likely to forget soon. But, other than that, things have been pretty slow."

"Maybe you need to get your own 900 number."

"Sure, that's it. 1-900-ME-WITCH, maybe? I could have my own infomercial."

"It's got potential," he said. Then his voice became serious. "Listen, I'm on a case in Madison, Wisconsin, and I need you."

"All right. When?" Her voice had also lost its levity.

"Quick as you can get here."

She thought for a moment. "If there's a flight out tonight, I'll be on it. If not, I'll get the first one tomorrow."

"Okay, that'll be fine."

"So, what's the job? I need to know what kind of gear to pack."

"I want you to do a couple of things. First is to revive, and maybe strengthen, a network of warding charms in a house."

"How powerful do you need them to be?"

"The strongest you've got. The family's been under escalating magical attack over the last three months. With lethal intent, looks like."

"All right, that seems fairly straightforward. What's the rest of it?"

"Find whoever's responsible for this assault and stop it."

"Stop the assault—or stop the person?"

Morris thought about the LaRues, saw again the fear and exhaustion and despair etched into their faces, like copper engravings inscribed by acid.

"Whatever it takes, Libby," he said quietly. "Whatever it takes."

"Supernatural?"

"Yes, right. I mean, what prevents it from following us here, whatever it is?"

"Because the attacks are all aimed at your living space," Morris explained. "Has your daughter reported any incidents occurring while she was at school?"

"No, she hasn't, you're right. Wait—what about the time in my car, when I damn near had a head-on with that truck?"

"Your car's part of your living space. You're in it every day, I'd guess, and at predictable times. Commuting, and so on."

"And you think that makes a difference?"

"I'm sure it does. We'll talk about that some more tomorrow. You and your family get yourselves a decent night's sleep, okay? Tomorrow we'll get to work making your home safe again."

"Who's 'we?'"

"Me, along with a consultant I've called in, who'll be here late tonight or early tomorrow."

"Consultant? What's this one's name—Van Helsing?"

"Her name's Elizabeth Chastain, and she's one of the best in the country at what she does."

"You mean she's some kind of… ghostbuster?"

"No, I mean she's some kind of witch."

The man's thin face had the weathered look of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors without the luxury of sunscreen. His eyes were the pale blue you sometimes see in fine Dresden china. They moved constantly, blinked rarely, and missed nothing. His tropical-weight gray suit, not cheap and not expensive, had already been rumpled when he'd boarded the plane in Jo'burg. By now, even its wrinkles had wrinkles.

He retrieved his big, battered suitcase from the baggage carousel and made his way over to Customs. He had been standing in line for less than a minute when he was approached by a well-dressed, thirtyish black man carrying a briefcase.

"Mister Van Dreenan?" The black man didn't sound the least bit tentative.

"Detective Sergeant Van Dreenan,
ja."

The other man's eyes might have narrowed a little at Van Dreenan's use of the title, but if so, the expression was gone in an instant. He held up a small leather case containing a badge and a laminated ID card. "Special Agent Dale Fenton, FBI."

Fenton slipped the leather case into a pocket and extended his hand. "Welcome to America." His handshake was brisk, businesslike.

After shaking hands, Fenton stepped back and said, "Would you come with me, please?"

He led Van Dreenan to a nearby office marked "Authorized Personnel Only." Inside, a pretty Chinese woman who'd been working at a computer looked up.

"Oh, hi, Agent Fenton," she said pleasantly. "Is this the gentleman we spoke about?"

Fenton nodded. Van Dreenan put down his suitcase and stepped forward. "Garth Van Dreenan," he said. He shook the woman's hand carefully, as if well aware how easy it would be to break the bones.

"Veronica Chen," she said. "Welcome to the United States. May I have your passport and visa, please?"

She slowly slid his passport over a scanner that looked similar to the kind used in supermarket checkout lanes, and was rewarded by several electronic beeps and the illumination of a small green light. Then, consulting his visa, she typed something into the computer, waited, then typed some more. She clicked the mouse, and on a shelf behind her a printer came to life and began slowly disgorging a document.

Veronica Chen opened a drawer and produced a couple of pre-inked rubber stamps. She applied each one to both the passport and visa, then returned them to Van Dreenan. Pulling the sheet of paper from the printer, she placed it in front of Fenton. "Signature and badge number, please," she said to the FBI man. "And today's date."

Fenton filled in the information quickly and returned the document. "Thanks, Veronica, appreciate your help." Then he turned to Van Dreenan and said, "You've just cleared Customs. Let's go."

As they proceeded down a long hallway, Van Dreenan asked, "What was that form that you signed in there?"

"That was me sparing a visiting fellow officer the indignity of having his baggage searched, by attesting that he hasn't brought anything illegal into the country," Fenton said. He eyed Van Dreenan's suitcase. "I hope you're not going to make a liar out of me by having a machine gun in there." He did not sound like he was joking.

Van Dreenan smiled crookedly. "No," he said. "No… machine guns." The pause was similar to the one Bela Lugosi used to use in the movies when saying, "I never drink… wine."