Dime Store Magic (11 page)
"What did you do with it?" I whispered.
Savannah looked up from her magazine. "With what?"
I lowered my voice another notch. "The Hand of Glory."
"I moved it."
"Good. Thank you. I completely forgot. Where'd you put it?"
She rolled onto her stomach and returned to her magazine. "Someplace safe."
"Ms. Winterbourne?"
I spun to see the lead detective from the state police in my bedroom doorway.
"We found cats," he said.
"Cats?" I repeated.
"Three dead cats buried a short distance from the scene."
I motioned toward Savannah and lifted a finger to my lips, gesturing that I didn't want this discussed in front of her. The detective moved to the living room, where several officers were lounging on my sofa and chairs, muddy shoes propped on my antique coffee table. I swallowed my outrage and turned to the detective.
"So it was cat's blood?" I said.
"Apparently, though we'll run tests to be sure."
"Good."
"Killing cats might not be on the same scale as murder, but it's still a serious offense. Very serious."
"It should be. Anyone who'd do that…" I didn't have to fake my shudder, needing only to remember the sight of those maimed bodies. "I can't believe someone would do that, stage a Satanic altar behind my yard."
"Stage?" the detective said. "What makes you think it was staged?"
"It looked real to me," one of the officers said, waving a cookie that looked suspiciously like the same cookies that were in my cupboard.
His wave scattered crumbs across my ivory carpet. I looked at those crumbs, looked at the muddy boot prints surrounding it, looked at the bookcase behind it, my books and photos and mementos shoved into haphazard piles, and I felt a snap. Just a small one.
"And you say that based on witnessing exactly how many Satanic altars?" I asked.
Silence.
"We've seen photos," he muttered at last.
"Oh, right. The photos. There's probably one genuine photo circulating endlessly around the entire country. Attention all units: beware of Satanic cults. Do you know what Satanic cults are? The biggest hoax ever perpetrated by the American media. Do you know who builds all those so-called Satanic altars you hear about? Kids. Bored, angry teenagers trying to shock the establishment. That and the occasional homicidal moron who's already planning his defense: the devil made me do it.
Satanic altar, my ass. What you saw out back there is a prank. A very, very sick prank."
Silence.
"You sure seem to know a lot about this stuff," one officer said.
"It's called a college education." I wheeled on the detective. "Are you charging me with anything?"
"Not yet."
"Then get the hell out of my house so I can clean up your mess."
After a tersely worded admonition against leaving town and a suggestion that I "may want to retain legal counsel," the police left.
Black Mass Pizza
THE POLICE WERE BARELY OUT THE DOOR WHEN
SAVANNAH appeared from her room and dropped down beside me on the sofa.
"Black Mass," she said. "I can't believe they still believe in that stuff.
Humans are so stupid."
"You shouldn't say that," I said, without much conviction.
"It's true. About the Satanism stuff at least. They get all weird about it.
You try to tell them the truth, that Satan's just one of tons of demons and that he doesn't give a crap about us, and they still figure you can conjure him up and hell give you anything you want. As if." She sunk back into the sofa cushions. "My mom had this friend, a necromancer, who used to make really good money selling Black Masses."
"Selling Black Masses?"
"You know, setting them up for people. He ran this business, 'Satanic Rites by Jorge.' His real name's Bill, but he figured he could charge more with Jorge.' He'd supply all this fake stuff, set it up, give them scripts, the whole thing. If he did a full Black Mass, which cost a lot, he'd buy us pizza. Black Mass pizza, we called it. We tried eating it upside-down, but the toppings fell off, so we settled for eating it backward." She sat up.
"There's still pizza left from last night, isn't there? That's what I'll have for breakfast. Black Mass pizza. You want some?"
I shook my head.
Savannah trotted off to the kitchen, still chattering. I collapsed back into the sofa.
Two hours later, I was still on the couch, having ignored eight phone calls and three answering machine messages, all from reporters dreaming of a "Satanism in a Small Town" scoop. Like the police, these people knew nothing about true Satanism—not to say that I agree with that belief system, either, but at least it has nothing to do with mutilated cats and bloody pentangles.
The Satanic cult scares that crop up periodically are just a new form of witch hunts. People are always looking to explain evil, to find a rationale that places the blame outside the realm of human nature. The scapegoats change with remarkable ease. Heretics, witches, demonic possession, the Illuminati, they've all been targeted as hidden sources of evil in the world.
Since the sixties, Satanic cults have been the favored group. The damn tabloids publish so much crap on the subject that it's a self-perpetuating cycle—they print one story, some psycho reads it and copies the methods described, so they print his story and so on. In 1996, the government spent $750,000 to reassure the American public that Satanic cults weren't operating in the nation's day care facilities. I sleep so much better knowing they cleared up that one.
With this new development, I'd have been reluctant to send Savannah to school. Fortunately, it was Saturday, so that wasn't an issue. After lunch, she went down to the basement to work on her art. Yes, I know, most artists like big airy studios filled with natural light and soothing silence. Not Savannah. She liked the semidark basement and blaring music.
When the doorbell rang, I suspected it was one of the reporters, deciding to try something more proactive than making phone calls. So I ignored it and continued emptying the dishwasher. It rang again. I realized then that it might be the police come to renew their search. The last thing I needed was cops busting down my door. They'd done enough damage already.
I hurried to the front hall, undid the spells, and flung open the door to see a young man. He was about six feet tall, thin, with a face so average I doubted anyone remembered him five minutes after meeting him. Short dark hair, clean-shaven, Hispanic. Presumably dark eyes behind his wire-frame glasses, but he wouldn't meet my gaze. He stood there, eyes downcast, clutching an armful of papers with a beat-up satchel slung over one shoulder. Oh, did I mention he was wearing a suit? On a Saturday?
Wonderful. Just what I needed. A Jehovah's Witness.
"Lucas Cortez," he said, shifting the papers to his left hand and extending his right. "Your new legal counsel."
"Look, I'm not interested—" I stopped. "Did you say 'legal counsel'?"
"I'll be taking your case from here, Ms. Winterbourne." Despite his lowered gaze, his voice was confident. "We should step inside."
He brushed past me without waiting for an invitation. As I stood, momentarily dumbfounded, Cortez took off his shoes, walked into the living room, and surveyed his surroundings, as if assessing my ability to pay for his services.
"I assume the disarray is from the search," he said. "This is unacceptable. I'll speak to them about it. I presume they had a warrant?
Ah, here it is."
He picked up the warrant from the coffee table, added it to his papers, and walked into the kitchen.
"Wait a second," I said, hurrying after him. "You can't just take that."
"Do you have a copier?"
I swung into the kitchen. He'd already established himself at the table, moved my things aside, and started spreading his papers.
"I take my coffee black."
"You can take your coffee down at the doughnut shop unless you tell me who sent you here."
"You are in need of legal services, are you not?"
I hesitated. "Oh, I get it. No one sent you. What do they call you guys?
Ambulance chasers? I'm not interested. And if you try to bill me for this visit—"
"I'll do nothing of the sort. This visit is entirely free. A sampling of my services. I've taken the liberty of acquainting myself with your case, and I've devised a strategy for defending you." He moved two papers across the table, and turned them to face me. "As you'll see, this is a simple contract stating that, by agreeing to speak to me today, you are in no way committing yourself to retaining my services and will not be charged for this meeting."
I scanned the contract. For a legal document, it was surprisingly straightforward, a simple statement that relieved me of any obligation for this initial consultation. I glanced at Cortez, who was busy reading the warrant. He couldn't be more than late twenties, probably just out of law school. I'd once dated a newly graduated lawyer, and I knew how tough it could be to find work. As a young entrepreneur myself, could I really blame this guy for hard-selling his services? If, as the police suggested, I did need a lawyer, it certainly wouldn't be someone this young, but there was no harm in hearing him out.
I signed the contract, then passed it to him. He said nothing, just added his signature and handed me a copy.
"Let's start by discussing credentials," I said.
Without looking up from his papers, he said, "Let me assure you, Ms.
Winterbourne, there is no one more qualified to handle your case."